Vanguard
by Windschild8178
Summary: Eight-year-old Ron knows his crazy Uncle Billius wasn't as cracked as everyone believes. Wearing gloves in the summer, pockets full of cheering charms, terrified of Patronuses: all of these things seem pretty reasonable to Ron who can see the Grim just as well as his Uncle could. Ron is content to ignore the creature until he accidentally-on-purpose kills someone.
1. Chapter 1:Warlock's Hairy Heart

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

Chapter 1: The Warlocks Hairy Heart

"Unaware of his secret, the warlock's family laughed to see him so aloof and cold."

Arthur pulled his wife to him. Molly giggled. They'd had maybe one too many drinks between them and it was affecting their balance. No apparating, that was for certain. Fifteen years they'd been together, Fifteen wonderful years. They'd survived the conception of seven beautiful children and one terrible war. They'd buried loved ones and saw the fall of a dark lord at the hands of a babe.

The anniversary of their marriage.

A celebration of love and endurance.

Arthur giggled manically. This beautiful woman was his forever and always. How did he get so lucky? He bid Tom goodnight, the bar keeper waving while magic floated around them, glasses being scrubbed by towels, bottles pouring wine, counters shining themselves.

"Do you think Bilius got them all asleep?" Molly slurred.

"I'm sure he did just fine."

"The twins are probably still up," Molly sighed. "They have that man curled around their little fingers. I think Bilius still feels guilty about the argument he had with Gideon and Fabien before…" She hiccupped.

"Hush dear, I'm they are all fine," Arthur said, trying to draw her away from such dark thoughts. "They will be asleep. Bilius will have taken the couch. And we can sneak passed all of them and have a little fun."

It worked, she giggled, pulling at his loosened tie to bring him down to her much shorter level. She kissed the side of his mouth. He dragged her closer, deepening the kiss and sighing in contentment. Protection. They needed protection, because as much as he dearly loved and cherished all of his children, making seven into eight was a terrible idea at the moment.

"Floo, then potion, then fun," Arthur muttered as he grabbed a handful of powder.

Molly gripped her own.

They were back at the burrow within seconds, stumbling into the living room, trying to be as quiet as possible, but failing. Their feet stomped and their toes seemed to hit every piece of furniture.

"Bilius," Molly stage whispered. "We've come to rescue you!"

She fell into a fit of giggles. Arthur smiled at her before looking around. His big brother wasn't sleeping on the couch. It was quite late, but the man had always been a night owl, so he wasn't surprised.

"Bilius," Arthur called, walking into the kitchen. It too was empty. He headed towards the stairs and as quietly as a six-foot-tall, highly intoxicated, love drunk self could manage, he checked the rooms one by one. It wasn't until he'd checked Ginny's room near the top that a nauseas feeling began to pull into his stomach.

Ron's room was the only one left.

* * *

For as long as Arthur could remember, his brother had been… eccentric. Bilius wore thick gloves all the time and the man always wanted new things. He refused to touch anything from a thrift shop or any of Arthur's muggle devices. Not that Bilius was a prude, he was very casual actually, very careful with his money, but these contradictions only weighed more heavily upon his known status as odd.

His big brother was a wonderful human being. Charming, funny, though some of his jokes could be inappropriate, his pranks more so on occasion. Arthur loved him. There was also an oldness to him. As if he'd seen far more than he'd ever wanted to. As if he'd traveled the world more than once and felt entirely too tired of it all. That hadn't started until his eccentricities did. It was while they'd been at Hogwarts, Arthurs third year and Bilius sixth.

Though Arthur asked many times what changed during that year, Bilius remained tight lipped and cold towards him when the subject came up, and only on this subject, ever. So Arthur eventually dropped it.

Bilius never married. Much to their mother's chagrin. The man never showed any interest in it. When Arthur had hesitantly broached the subject, Bilius replied:

"You're supposed to spend your entire life getting to know the ins and outs of your partner. It's what keeps it interesting. Learning the depths of their courage, the strength of their compassion, the little things that surprise you. I can't be surprised. I can't be intimate with another person. Most of the time, I can't even be myself. How could I ever doom another human being to the hell that would be being with me?"

Arthur didn't understand most of what was said. But he understood the pain and the sadness that laced those words. He knew his brother did not like hugs, but he threw his arms around the man anyways. Squeezing the tense muscles under him briefly before pulling away.

"Don't talk like that," Arthur scolded, searching his brother's eyes. "You're a great person. Don't sell yourself short."

Bilius just gave him a strained smile in reply.

The subject only came up a few more times, mainly in the presence of his mother. Their father passed away a long time ago, the death having taken a toll on all of them, but especially Bilius. They had been much closer than Arthur had been to either of them. Secretive.

With each child that came into this world, Bilius seemed more unhappy. Though he loved the children, he stated that the Weasley line was one he thought should end. Not one to breed all over the place. Why he felt this way, Arthur never managed to get his brother to tell him.

Never the less, Bilius loved his kids, especially Fred and George, but Arthur had a inkling that the twins were a strange mix of Molly's twin older brothers and his own. How it happened, genetically, he will never know, but there it was. The twins really weren't anything like he or Molly, too mischious for their own good and taking far too much delight in the misfortunes of others. Though Arthur would admit taking an unhealthy, long laugh when Lucius Malfoy tripped and fell into the fountain half a year ago during a festival. Chuckle.

That's why what happened was so devastating.

* * *

Fabion and Gideon had called first dibs holding Ron after Molly and himself. Bilius had waited patiently for his turn. Just as he always did. He always looked so disapproving when Arthur first announced another child coming, but he always looked wide eyed and awe struck when he got to hold them.

It had been the same with Ron, at first, Bilius held the small redhead to him, bouncing him up and down gently, though that seemed hardly necessary seeing as the moment the babe left Gideon's arms to his brother's, he'd quieted. With the baby still in his arms, he carefully removed his thick gloves and let his fingers be gripped by tiny fingers.

When Ronald's fist encircled Bilius large knuckle though, something changed. His brother looked devastated.

"What's wrong?" Arthur demanded, taking two quick strides over and swooping the baby out of his older brother's arms. He looked down to see big blue eyes looking up at him curiously, a tiny yawn showing no signs of distress or being hurt. Bilius eyes never left Ronald.

"Nothing's wrong Arthur, just thinking about something Dad said once," Bilius murmured. "I've been here too long. I think it's time I head out. Paperwork won't fill itself out."

"Don't be a git," Fabion told Bilius. "The babe's just popped out, sorry Molls, wrong term. Besides, you promised you'd help watch the kids for the next few days."

Bilius shook his head, like the thought burned him.

"Well then, perhaps they should have figured out that five kids is more than plenty to take care of," Bilius muttered.

"What did you say?" Gideon snapped, eyes blazing.

"I think leaving would be a good idea," Arthur cut in, searching his brother's eyes for an explanation. "Come back when you've got your head on straight."

"Haven't had my head on straight since I was sixteen," Bilius said. "But I know what you mean. It's for the best. I'll talk to you later, Arthur."

* * *

He apologized later for the incident, but Molly had refused to talk to him for several months longer. His words falling away from her not unlike she'd cast a protego.

Like many things before it; Bilius frail immune system (and his constant sickness), their father's suicide, their mother's depression, Bilius social nature yet refusal to be social- like all of these things- Bilius's tendency to not go near Ron was also swept under the rug.

Ron tended to stay away from Bilius just as much. Oddly enough. The toddler scrunched up his nose whenever his Uncle came around. Bilius never tried to pick him up like the other children and, despite being a child in need of attention, never asked Bilius to pick him up. Arthur didn't know what to make of it.

Shortly after Ron had turned four, they were in the kitchen, Bilius had come over to borrow some of Molly's pans in preparation for their mother's arrival in his home. Bilius owned very little in the way of cooking utensils and went to every expense to hide his lack of domesticity from their mother each time she visited. Arthur couldn't argue, before Molly's cooking, he too preferred take out (still did on occasion).

"I'm sorry, Bilius, it seems I've misplaced the cooking pot," Arthur muttered.

He passed by Ron. His shoulder brushing against Ron's as the little boy tugged and tried to muscle his way through the workings of the puzzle Percy had set up on the table for him. Ron looked up suddenly to stare at his dad.

"Don't you remember?" Ron piped up.

"Well, that's the problem," Arthur chuckled, bemused.

Ron pointed to an upper cabinet on the other side of the kitchen.

"You put it up there because mummy said that 'the blasted thing' kept falling out and hitting her. So you took it and put it where it wasn't so crowded. You said your mummy was stupid for getting it for you in the first place," Ron said solemnly.

Arthur cringed.

"Did I now?" He murmured. He remembered now, though he could have sworn that Ron or any of his children were not in the house that day. They'd been playing hide and seek in the woods. Perhaps Ron had wandered back in without them knowing, seeking to outsmart his fellow siblings.

"Uh-huh," Ron nodded his head, "And you swore. A lot."

Yes, yes he had. For while he was getting the pot down it had fallen on _his_ head. He glanced over at Bilius, wanting to swear his brother to silence on this matter. Molly would certainly not see it as an accident and his big brother was not below tattling to get back into the good graces of the woman around them. But Bilius did not seem to be paying attention. He was ashen faced, eyes blankly staring ahead, though in the general direction of… Ron.

He looked back at Ron, but his boy was fixated on the puzzle as if he'd never been interrupted in the first place. He walked up to Bilius and shook the older man. Bilius pulled away automatically, Arthur tried to brush it off, as he'd done all these years. This time seemed more… severe though.

"This has to stop," Arthur growled.

If Ron ever found out his Uncle had a problem with him then his little boy would be hurt. He wouldn't let Bilius's eccentricities hurt his little boy in any way. The man shook himself like a dog, nodding his head in agreement.

"Listen, little bro, there's something I have to tell you, something me and dad didn't think you would ever have to deal with."

That got Arthur's attention.

"What is it?" Arthur demanded, "Wait! Let me get Ron down, take him to Molly, then we can talk in private."

"Actually, it's fine if he hears," Bilius told him, waving his hand dismissively. "It would probably be best if the whole family heard. But just the two of you first." Arthur scooped Ron into his arms. The puzzle clinked against his neck as Ron automatically put his hands around his father. They went to the kitchen counter where Bilius set a silencing charm up and sealed both the windows and doors.

"What's this about Billy?" Arthur asked, using the nickname from so long ago.

"You know the rumor about the Prewitt's right? About how they might be the descendants of Gryffindor?" Molly and her brother's (let the twins rest in peace, those good men) had always dismissed such claims, but they still hung around the old pureblood family. Arthur nodded.

"The Weasley's are a good family," Bilius continued, pacing back and forth through the kitchen. "But they weren't always that way. They didn't always stand up for the rights of half breeds and muggles. They weren't always labeled as blood traitors."

That was news to him. He brought Ron closer, giving his brother a look.

"Is this really something that should be talked about in front of a four-year-old?" Arthur demanded.

"No," Bilius agreed, "But he needs to hear this. The Weasley's once practiced dark magic."

"Billy!" Arthur snapped, covering Ron's ears. He stood up with his baby boy who frowned up at them.

"Arthur, he needs to hear this!" Bilius followed Arthur, blocking the door. "The Weasley's experimented with dark magic! Bringing up dark memories to the surface of a person, taking the soul from another human being, causing others to feel depressed, like they were never going to be happy again!"

"Four years old!" Arthur pulled out his wand, motioning it threateningly at Bilius. "Four. Years. Old."

"Your child is one of them!"

Dead silence.

"Well," Bilius started, a sheepish expression on his face, "Not exactly practicing dark magic... a creature of dark magic."

"Creature?" A small voice squeaked. Big watery eyes looked up at them, trembling lips overlain by horrified words. He clung to Arthur, staring up at his Uncle with pained eyes. Bilius looked wracked with guilt and pity.

"Get out!"

"Let me explain!"

"Out!"

"You need to know the truth!"

"Get out of my house, Bilius!"

Arthur sent a jinx his brother's way. The man jumped back, but didn't manage to avoid it entirely. His mouth went slack, rendered useless and rubbery for the next few days. Bilius sagged and grabbed his bag, cooking pot forgotten, to the sound of a wailing child.

"Shhhhh, it's okay Ronnie," Arthur murmured. "You're no such thing. You hear me? No such thing."

He hadn't had the heart to tell Molly what his brother had done. Still, he didn't let Bilius come around for a long time. When he'd finally allowed his brother back in, it was only with the vehement promise that he would never tell any of his children things like that again. Bilius had promised. Swore up and down on his grave that he wouldn't dare. His big brother claimed that he'd temporarily lost his common sense. It wouldn't happen again.

And now…

* * *

Arthur took the steps two at a time, suddenly feeling, not sober, but more alert. He burst through Ron's door, but there was no one there. Not even Ron. Arthur's heart clenched. Trying to rationalize. Bilius wouldn't hurt Ron. He just needed to find them.

Arthur stormed down the stairs, checking every room, not being careful this time. Waking his children as he hit walls and nearly fell down the slope of stairs. Molly came out of their bedroom, her hair pulled halfway out of its hold.

"What in the world…"

"Bilius isn't here, Ron's gone," Arthur croaked. Molly stumbled back as if he'd physically struck her.

"You don't think something happened, do you? An emergency? Do you think their at St. Mungos?" Molly babbled.

It suddenly occurred to Arthur how terrible a mistake it had been to not tell her about what had caused Bilius estrangement. He'd told her it had been a horrible argument. He hadn't wanted Molly to hate his big brother. He loved Bilius.

He should have…

Arthur raced to the backyard, sending his patronus out to search as he scanned the area. Checked the wards. The floo. There hadn't been floo travel in hours, around the time they'd left. Which meant that they were either nearby or Bilius had apparated them away. Arthur marched back in to see his wife's head in the fireplace. She pulled it out, looking stricken.

"What?! Are they there? Is Ron hurt? Is he alright?" Arthur practically shouted.

"There not there," Molly whispered.

The bottom of his stomach ripped open before stuffing itself into the chambers of his heart, trying to burst it from the inside out.

"What's going on?" Percy grumbled, Arthur looked up, seeing that his children had wandered down. Bill was looking scared, the oldest of his children, he seemed to have the most grasp on what was going on.

""Where did Uncle Bilius take Ronnie?" Bill demanded.

"No fair!" Fred snapped. "Why does Ron get to go with Uncle Bilius? At night!?"

At night.

At. Night.

NIGHT!

Arthur turned, running from the house like a madman, apparating the moment his body passed the wards. He reappeared at his brother's star gazing spot. A stone slab fallen upon felled trees just by the river. A mile away from their childhood home.

Whimpering and crying. Child and man. His son and brother.

Arthur whirled, the sight before him cementing into the soft pink membrane inside his skull. His brother with tears streaming down his face, sniffling, bawling his eyes out. A long knife in his hands, glowing with magic, the sharp edge glittering in the moonlight. Ron, his head tilted back, forcibly, with the knife against his neck. The six-year-old was whimpering, tears quietly slipping from his eyes. The stark smell of urine in the air.

In that moment, he could have snapped his brother's neck with his bare hands.

Arthur struck Bilius down with a vicious slash of his wand. It left him unconscious, but alive. No thought to his brother entered his mind even as the knife clattered to the stone once, twice, darkening to a dull grey. His arms wrapped around his little boy. Ron fell into them, curling up and sobbing loudly, a bundle of snot and tears and piss.

The heaving little chest moved against his own and Arthur realized he was having a panic attack. That he couldn't get his arms to go around Ron tight enough, strong enough, long enough. Arthur rocked back and forth, saying things, he didn't know what things, but just that they were said out loud and that Ron didn't seem to be hearing them at all. He cradled his baby boy's head and kissed his forehead and trembled in sync with his son.

Seconds.

Ron had been seconds away from death.

Eventually ice began to settle on their heads and the shivering developed between them was more than terror and relief, but cold. Arthur moved his stiff legs, glancing at his brother blankly as he tried to figure out what to do next. He was reluctant to let go of his boy, but Bilius needed to be tied up.

Merlin.

He needed to tie up his brother.

Arthur hugged Ron to him. The six-year-old fast asleep, worn out. A thought struck him. Arthur gently turned Ron over, pulling his shirt up, checking for injury. No bruises. No obvious hurt. Bilius hadn't hurt him. Not physically.

When he'd managed to gather his wits to himself, he sent a patronus to the Aurors. They arrived soon after, and an Auror apparated Ron to a healer for treatment. Arthur didn't trust himself, drunk as he still was, to bring his child there.

He was getting ready to side apparate, watching as men gathered up his unconscious brother, when it happened. When it all went to shit.

Bilius had woken.

He suddenly found himself flying through the air and hitting the ground hard. The breath was knocked out of him. Arthur rolled onto his knees to see his brother running, the Healers hot on his trail, with his wand out.

"Don't let Ron near any Death! It will awaken the curse to its full potential! Dementors will worsen it, make him lose control!" Bilius screamed over the sound of jinxes flying about.

"Bilius!" Arthur shouted, though his words died, as one of the Healers got an impediment jinx in. His brother went down hard.

"The Grim is coming for me! Arthur, I love you, tell mum I love her! I won't make it to morning. Tell the family I love them! Tell the twins to keep up the good work! Tell Ron he's not a monster. I didn't mean it that way. Tell him I'm sorry!"

The Healers hauled him to his feet, bringing Bilius towards a portkey. Tears sprang to his eyes. Why did it have to be like this? How had it gotten this bad without Arthur noticing? Without anyone noticing?

"They're going to take care of you."

Now that it was over, now that he was being taken away, the cold fury was being taken with it. Arthur couldn't look at his brother, couldn't watch the man who'd taken care of him after their father's suicide be dragged away to an insane asylum.

Bilius had stopped struggling. Red hair toppling forward to throw his face into what looked like a wild inferno. His eyes had lost all of its light. Dulled beyond recognition. There was no blue left. Just a dark, dark grey.

"I forgive you, Arthur. Know that I don't hold this against you. It's our own fault. Not telling you. Keeping you and mum in the dark. You could have helped me handle it better. But I was so afraid you'd reject me. Think me a monster. It's taken a long time to see myself as something other than some hybrid freak. You've always been so compassionate and accepting, I don't know why I thought you would betray me when you learned of this. This isn't a betrayal. You're just trying to help."

"We need to be going Mr. Weasley. Don't worry. We'll take good care of your brother," one of the two Healers said kindly.

"Thank you, I will be by in a few days, once I've cleared some time from work." To Bilius he said. "We'll fix this. I'll be there soon enough and we'll find a way to help you."

Bilius just smiled weakly as he was ported away.

Arthur never got the chance to 'fix it.' Just as his brother predicted, he did not make it to morning. He sat in shocked silence in the mental portion of St. Mungo's, staring up at the down turned expressions on the Healer's face. The man understood as much as Arthur did. There had been no indication that Bilius was going to die. The man was in perfect health. There was no diagnosis to show that he had been ill. It was as if he simply faded throughout the night into death.

Lost and confused he said nothing through the funeral, simple head his mother as she sobbed while Molly squeezed his hand.

" _Don't let Ron near any Death!"_

Despite his reigning disbelief that his brother's death had anything to do with the Grim… He did not let Ron go to the funeral. Or any funeral. Or any graveyard. Or anything that had anything to do with Death. Whether his brother was insane or not, he would not chance his little boy on being wrong.

Not when he'd done so to his own brother.

Now though, as he sat staring at his youngest son, cheerfully playing with Ginny, he wished he'd begged his brother to tell him about what exactly the curse was. That last day with his brother, he'd been trying and trying to tell Arthur something, and he'd refused to listen. Perhaps his brother had been crazy, Arthur prayed the man had been, for Ron's sake. If not… then Merlin help his child.

* * *

Eddie Thompson had been practicing prepping bodies for death ten years now. His wife was a rather beautiful witch, out of his league might he add, who worked as an Auror when they met. He was a muggle born, brother of a wizard, who got his degree from the University of England. Wizards held no stock in such things, but his wife had pleaded his case, ensuring that they both had jobs in the magical world so he would not have to travel great lengths for work each day.

It was safe to say that he'd seen some… odd things. Wizards tended to not die by normal means. Many of the deaths were unnaturally unpleasant. One witch hit the grave through accidental enlargement of her brain, the matter, squeezing out from her ears and even her mouth. She'd been trying to enlarge her dog so that the kids could ride on him like a pony. Such an awful tragedy.

Then there was the Veela who had been kissed to death. Kissed to death! She'd had so many admirers that she'd inadvertently caused a mob with her beauty. They'd not allowed the poor woman to breathe!

And don't get him started on the war victims! Imploded lungs. Water drownings on land. Victims who looked like they'd been eaten alive by spiders or dogs. Half smashed bodies from giants and troll attacks. What a mess.

Things did not surprise Eddie Thompson anymore. He rolled with the punches and kept on kicking. Still, when Bilius Weasley's body came into his morgue, it was one of the odder ones.

"There's nothing left of his magical core," Roger's told him, standing stiff and uncomfortable at the end of the table. Nothing new there. Eddie quietly snickered. No wife and spent too much of his money on gambling for a whore. The man needed to get laid, like 'five years ago needed to get laid.'

"Come across a dementor then, huh?" Eddie murmured as he flipped through the pages of the man's profile. Odd, the papers listed that the man had blue eyes, but the pair staring up at his ceiling, unblinkingly, were a very dull milky grey. Like he'd been blind for _years_. Though, according to his papers, the man could see perfectly fine.

"No dementor," Rogers informed him.

Eddie's head snapped up.

"Magical cores don't just disappear," Eddie drawled. Roger did tend to be slower than the average bloke, but this was a bit much. "They're linked to the soul. Only insanely dark magic or a dementor could remove it, even in death."

"No dark magic," Roger's stated slowly, staring Eddie in the eye, "and no dementor."

"Magic has rules, just like everything else in the universe," Eddie snapped. "One or the other conditions has to exist for this to be possible. Either the universe is wrong or you are."

"Well hot damn, I beat the universe."

"You missed something."

"Bloke was in an insane asylum. Magic only used by high clearance individuals. No dementor a hundred miles within reach. Don't want them getting worse, ya know?"

"I suggest sending an investigative team then, because someone is dark and dirty," Eddie growled.

"I investigated."

"I meant professionals."

"And what would a muggle know about magical professionals?"

Silence fell upon them both.

It had been a long while since any of the Aurors or his colleagues dared to talk about what Eddie did and didn't know about the wizarding world. Roger was breathing hard. There was an air of slight regret, but too much anger clouded his eyes for any apology to be said. He took a step back, then another, before turning completely and walking briskly out the door.

Eddie sat down on his small medical chair, the wheels squealing as they slid back along tile. Tonight he would go home and snuggle with his wife and pretend as if he didn't live in a world that did not want him in it.

Right now though, right now he needed to have Mr. Bilius Weasley examined. The poor sod. Eddie stripped the man of clothing, taking note of the ridiculous amount of pockets. There was a cut on the bottom of the man's foot he would examine later. He started from the head, going downwards. Magical readings automatically went over the body without his involvement. They were set up by his boss, to do the few things that Eddie could not. He paid them no mind.

Besides the wrong colored eyes… nothing seemed out of place. The man was emaciated, for reasons he couldn't fathom. He had been deprived of nutrition for a long while, though his stomach seemed inclined to tell of regular means, as it wasn't shrunken or irregular in any way.

The man looked both oddly old and young at the same time. As if he'd been diagnosed of terminal illness as a babe and lived each day waiting to die. A full head of hair, good skin, but eyelids that were unnaturally wrinkled, hands with callouses from work and worry. Nails bit down until the tips of bloodied fingers showed.

"What were you afraid of?" Eddie murmured.

He scanned the profile again, eyes catching on something.

"That doesn't bode well at all."

Eddie closed the profile with a snap. Looking at the man who died in a heavily guarded, highly magically restricted, insane asylum… not even twenty four hours after he'd been admitted through the removal of his magical core.

"You pissed off some mighty bad people, didn't you, Mr. Weasley?"

The man said nothing back. Eddie sighed. It was days like these that he wished he could do something more. Be something more. Weasley. Where had he heard that name before? Pureblood family, probably. His wife was always going on about how the purebloods were the reason the war happened and that if the Ministry had any common sense they would have made an example out of them.

Eddie moved downwards, going over the private area quickly, ten years and one would think it would lessen the awkwardness. But no, the first dick examination was just as disturbing as the thousandth. He wished he was more nonchalant about such matters, like his wife on the field. Passionate in the home, but stoic in the office. He didn't change from location to location. He was always short tempered and overanalyzing and high strung no matter what the circumstances.

Just the feet. Then he could go home. Apologize, Mr. Weasley, but it really has been a rather long day. He squinted at the cut; something was off about it. He readjusted his glasses, taking them off and cleaning them of all the specks and fog the cold room tended to cause. It came into focus.

Eddie gaped.

It was… words. Carved into the skin in deep gashes, letters only barely readable. But they were readable. A chill ran down his spine as he read the warning. Eddie pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, slowly writing out the words until they etched across the paper. But despite moving from skin to parchment, the words still rang ominous.

He moved to put the paper in his pocket, but the message seemed too… vital, to keep on him. He looked around the room, finding his notebook, a gift from his wife with all his observations written there. No one ever touched that book. Not even his beloved.

He slipped the note inside and walked back over to Bilius.

This man was not insane. Eddie felt that sentiment in his bones. Whatever had happened to him, whether it was murder or something else, Bilius had known it was coming. Had tried to warn people. And had been ignored and locked up for it.

The sound of a dog barking echoed through the halls.

Eddie twisted, all color draining from his being. He glanced at Bilius, feeling his insides squirm. He ran to the door, left open by Roger, slamming it shut with too much force. He heart beat fast, then faster, too fast.

His heart skipped a beat.

Two beats.

All beats.

Eddie staggered, hands reaching out to grasp the table. It groaned, but didn't give, instead Eddie did. He hit the ground, eyes staring up at the feet of Bilius Weasley. The lines of words engraved began to fade. The skin rippled before smoothing out. He croaked, his lungs trying to gain breath, even while the blood stopped flowing. The heart's pumps stilled.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his notebook aflame. The parchment turning black before his fading sight. A single, small note slipped onto the ground. The last words he would every write beginning to blacken into nothing.

The last of the letters disappeared alongside Eddie Thompson's life.

 **The Grim has plans for Ron.**

* * *

The Grim did, in fact, come in the form of a black dog. Though Ron figured most wouldn't believe it to be a small Jack Russell Terrier. He often saw it watching him from afar, eyes intent and observing.

What most people were unaware of though was that a dog was not its only form. The Grim could sometimes be seen as a frighteningly beautiful woman, a disfigured little boy, or on the rare occasion, a haggard looking crow. Ron knew it could be anything it wanted, but _these_ were the forms it preferred.

Ron only knew what this observing, intent creature was because of Uncle Bilius. On one of the rare occasions he'd babysat Ron and his siblings, his Uncle had caught him staring out the window at it and had almost ripped his arm off to turn him away. Uncle Bilius had warned him to never look and to keep as far away from it as possible. Apparently only a few could see it and if you were unfortunate enough to have the ability then you were also one of the few among the living who the Grim would touch. So Ron only let himself look out of the corner of his eye and the few ties he heard it speak he refused to respond.

His dad had told him that Uncle Bilius had lied. He'd been adamant about how Uncle Bilius had been sick, how nothing that he said could or would come true. Ron knew better though. His dad didn't want Uncle Bilius words to hurt, but the problem was that his Uncle had never lied to Ron. Not about being a monster. Not about the Grim. How could he ignore his words when more and more often the Grim showed up?

Specifically, Ron couldn't ignore the grim when it was following him into the toy shop in Diagone Alley. The Jack Russell, for once, wasn't paying attention to Ron, who was avidly avoiding it in the figuring section. It seemed on the hunt for something. Ron fought not to stare as it stopped in front of Meredith Binns.

The store owner of Fizzle Fits Toy Shop could not see the Grim. Like so many others the aging woman continued on with her routine as if nothing was amiss, fiddling with a blue bird toy, its beak opening to break into song, but one that faded in and out. She poked at it with her wand, muttering under her breath. As Ron watched Grim watching Meredith Binns, it seemed that Death was content to simply wait. It wasn't until the woman stood that the Grim padded over and almost gently pressed its nose to the woman's leg.

Ron gasped.

She… the woman hadn't buckled or even noticed, but she'd turned dark. Panicked, Ron leaped from his spot, stepping toward the Grim.

"What did you do?" Ron demanded, his fear increasing as he noticed dark webs spreading out from her leg. As all other people have when Ron came near, Meredith Binns wilted within Ron's presence, looking surprised at him before glancing down at the toy in her hands.

"Well, I was trying to repair this, but it seems rather hopeless, doesn't it?"

Ron stilled as he realized how ridiculous he must look and how quickly his presence had affected the cheerful looking old woman. Ron glanced around and cringed as he noticed two children who had been wandering around when he walked in sitting on the floor and glaring at the toys they were holding. This was why he avoided people. This was why he didn't want to go when his mum told him to get ready. Everyone else was going though and his mum didn't think he was old enough to stay at home by himself. From its spot a few feet away the Grim grinned savagely, its teeth snapping in excitement.

"Er…" Ron pointed at the blue bird, trying to fix his mistake. "I don't think so. It's lovely really. The way it fades in and out sounds like it's supposed to be that way."

Meredith Binns smiled warmly at him, Ron was taken aback, startled by the action. There was a sag in her shoulders and older and sadder around him, but… she still had the ability to smile? Odd.

"That's very sweet, but I'm afraid I am simply not as good as I used to be when it comes to animating toys. In my youth I could have hummingbirds and ravens flying about this place, singing in harmony and taking turns doing solos." She gestured to the bird. "This one can barely deliver a message across a room.

Ron reached forward and picked up the toy, feeling carved wood beneath his fingers, dark blue swirls etched along the wing and body a slightly lighter shade of blue. On its chest was a chamber, a small silver keyhole to open it. The wooden bird chirped at him, the sound pitching high at the end. Ron smiled. It was as dysfunctional as he was. The wing fluttered in his hands and he wondered if this was what an animal felt like. Hermes and Scabbers always fled from him, like they knew he was a monster.

"Kid," Ron looked up to see Meredith Binns staring at him. "What's your name?"

"Ron."

Ron didn't hold his hand out though, like mum taught him, because only bad things happened when he touched people. He'd rather not have anything happen to the nice lady in front of him.

"Ron, huh? Now why does such a sweet kid look so lonely?"

Ron blushed, feeling his ears turn red, but also awe at the lady in front of him. She seemed oddly resistant to the despair. He glanced around the cheery little toy shop and wondered if this place was the cause of it or if the woman herself caused the cheer.

~~"You should be honest with her."

Ron refused to look up at the voice. The gravelly croak told him that the Grim had morphed into the image of a disfigured child. The crooked jaw and bugged out eyes always unsettling him.

~~"She doesn't have long. There is no danger."

Ron tried very hard not to understand what the creature was saying, but deep in his gut he sort of knew. Ron glanced at the doomed woman, wanting to warn her, but knowing he wouldn't be taken seriously. So instead Ron did something he hadn't before. He listened to the Grim.

"Do you know what a Veela is?" Ron asked. Charlie had talked about them once and he'd been fascinated by the human like creatures so opposite of himself. Meredith Binns eyed him curiously but answered anyways.

"Magical beings capable of charm and seduction. Beautiful, but can also be rather dangerous."

"Charlie said they secrete a magic in the air that causes others to adore them. My magic is like the opposite. It causes people to want to do anything to get away from me. It causes them to be sad and to feel hopeless."

Meredith Binns looked ready to protest when a startled look came about her. She sat back in her chair and her face went blank for a moment before she stared at Ron for a good long minute. Her face filled with pity and emotions Ron wasn't how to label. The emotions were similar to the look his mum got when she thought about her dead brothers though, but not quite the same.

"I'm so sorry you've had to suffer that."

She reached for the bird and gently removed it from Ron's hand. She was going to kick him out. She was too nice to be mean about it, but he'd upset her and now she was going to make him leave. Ron braced for the disappointment, straightening up and biting his lip to try to keep the hurt at bay.

He'd _never_ told anyone about his curse before. He shouldn't have been so stupid. Of course she would want him out. She might even…

"Have you ever seen the charms they put in mirrors? To give feedback?" The ball inside his gut loosened at her calm tone. He shook his head. "They're very complicated. They take several weeks to make and you have to have a personality in mind when your crafting it or else it won't work." She gestured for him to follow her into the back room. Ron did o, despite feeling the crooked approving smile of the Grim as the child dragged itself behind Ron.

When they entered the back room, Meredith Binns walked over to a small drawer and pulled out a set of large marbles, about the size of shooters or fizzles.

"Now these were made by my daughter. It's her specialty, animation and transfiguration charms, usually these are melted into the glass of the mirror, but have a better idea in mind."

"What do you mean?" Ron asked, gazing at the shelves and shelves of half made toys in curiosity.

"What house do you want to be in Ron?"

There was no need to say anymore. Every magical child knew what she meant and Ron beamed at being asked.

"Gryffindor," Ron announced with no hesitation. Then more shyly he added. "I'm not sure if I'm brave enough though. A lot of things scare me."

"It's not about if they scare you. It's about how you let being scared affect you."

"What about you?" Ron asked.

"I was a Hufflepuff."

Ron thought hard, but there wasn't a single thing he remembered about the house.

"What do they stand for?"

"Loyalty. Kindness. Hard work. It is a house where you find friends that last a life time. Where you learn to appreciate the minds and souls of human beings and how to help them to the best of your ability."

"Wicked," Ron breathed. He'd give anything to have friends, to not have a monster breathing down his neck, and to be able to talk to people without worrying that he was hurting them by being there. The Hufflepuff house sounded wonderful, though Ron knew that whatever house he was in, it wouldn't change what he was. It wouldn't change the fact that Ron was a walking cloud of despair for people.

Meredith Binns smiled at him and Ron preened under her light. It felt so good, so warm, that he never wanted to leave. It was so… nice, to be near someone who didn't turn nasty and cold when he came close.

"I think I know which one to pick now," the woman muttered. She took a key from one of the drawers and popped open the bird's chest, it chirped indignantly at her. Then she picked up a yellow-pink shooter and slipped it into the chamber before closing it up. And then a funny thing happened; the wooden eyes began to glow a bright yellow, contrasting well against the shadow of blue.

"What did you do?" Ron asked, tracing the chamber. The bird shivered then chirped. It ruffled it's feathers and then the head turned to Ron.

"Helloowww," the bird tried out, before its beak clicked shut and it tried again. "I love your blue scarf. It brings out those big blue eyes of yours."

Ron gapped at the gruff feminine voice before glancing at Meredith Binns who was beaming with pride.

"How did it know…" Ron pulled at the knitted scarf.

"It's a mirror persona, meant to give feedback. It starts out with the basics but grows as it gets to know you."

The bird's head tipped to the side, the motion sticking there, clicking as sit tried to right itself.

"Why do I move?" It asked.

"Because you're not a mirror, dearie, you are a bird."

"Pretty bird?" It asked.

Meredith Binns rolled her eyes. She leaned towards Ron.

"All mirrors are the same; completely obsessed with looks. I had a mirror with a black stain on it once. He insisted I cover it up with a new type of illusion every few weeks."

Ron grinned, reaching out to pet the bird's head.

"Very pretty," Ron assured.

It preened, sticking neck clicking away

"It's animation charm is off," Meredith Binns sighed, "but it's the best I can do now. Can you do me a favor, Ron?"

"What sort of favor?"

Too long with the twins had taught him to never agree without knowing what you were agreeing to.

"Will you name her?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you, she needs a name now that we've given her a personality."

His mind instantly went to the clever witch in Babbitty Rabbitty, but this was a bird and it didn't seem particularly clever. Rowena was a pretty name and the Ravenclaw symbol was of a bird, but this one was more of a magpie than a raven. He thought of Ginny's favorite story; of the three witches and the knight, and knew the perfect name.

"Asha," Ron said confidently, at Meredith's raised eyebrows, Ron blushed and pointed to the ticking head. "Asha was a witch with a malady no Healer could cure."

"Clever. I like it."

"Do I have a malady?" Asha asked, sounding very put upon as the animated bird examined herself. "Oh dear, you can't see it, can you?"

"No, you can't see it at all," Ron lied, face straight.

"Oh, goodness, dearie, don't scare me like that," the bird lamented.

"My daughter really out did herself," Meredith Binns beamed. "Asha is already repeating my preferred word usages."

Ron's face scrunched up at the bird.

"So if I use a word a lot, she'll start repeating it?" Ron asked. That sounded rather dangerous to him.

"Only until her personality sets in."

"You should put her in the front window. That way she can hear all sorts of people talking and get, like, a bunch of personality types. That way she's… diverse," Ron struggled with the last word, trying to figure out if that was the correct way to use it. Percy was always spotting off all sorts of complicated words, but he rarely explained them. "You shouldn't let her talk to Chess sets though," Ron said thoughtfully. "My grandpa's set has been around for a long time and when they argue they don't say the best words they know. That's what mum says anyways."

"Don't worry, I have something a bit better in mind, and I think we should all strike to use our 'best words."

Ron nodded, taking a step back when Meredith Binns kneeled in front of him. The task seemed hard for her, her face contorting in a grimace. He was abruptly reminded of her leg. He glanced around for the Grim, but didn't see the creature, though that never meant it wasn't there.

"Ron, would you do me the favor of taking care of Asha. She's a little older than the other toys here and I've gotten too old to give her the attention she needs. I've grown very fond of her, but I think my daughter might toss her when I'm not looking."

Ron glanced at the bird forlornly, before shaking his head.

"I don't have any money."

"I'm not asking for any. What I want is for you to teach her how to be good and kind. I want you to teach her your best words and your best behaviors."

"But… I don't know how," Ron said in dismay. Didn't she understand what he was? What he did? "I make people sad, not happy, how could I teach her to be good or kind?"

Asha took off of her table, landing awkwardly on his shoulder. Ron stumbled to regain his balance, hands raising automatically to make sure she didn't fall as she adjusted herself.

"I have a feeling you'll do just fine." A chime rang throughout the store, startling them both. "Best to be getting back. Will you watch over her for me, Ron?"

Ron hesitated a second longer, knowing his mum would be upset with him if he said yes, but not really caring when he glanced at the yellow eyes staring back at him. Not a person, but someone to talk to, someone who Ron's ability wouldn't affect.

"Okay."

When they walked back out to the front, it was to a crowded toy shop. A storm having driven them inside. Ron wondered if Charlie, who was supposed to be watching him, had left the outdoor animal display in time or was wandering around somewhere soaked and looking for him.

When he caught sight of the Grim, he suddenly felt as if he'd eaten maggot infested liverworts. The Grim was dragging itself behind a toddler, watching it in fascination, it's not disfigured side twitching in something that might have been fondness or frightening anticipation. The image in front of him reminded him of Meredith Binns. He tugged on her sleeve before she could move behind the register.

"Mam," when he had her full attention, he continued. "I think you should close up and go see a Healer."

Meredith Binns was about to reply when a younger, angrier version of her marched in.

"Mother! Look at this line! You said you could handle it if I went to lunch."

The aging woman sighed, but winked at Ron when he glanced at the younger woman anxiously.

"Run while you can, dear, she's brilliant but she gets all out of sorts over the silliest things. Forgets to live while she still has time."

"You're hilarious," the daughter groused. Her eyes found Asha before turning accusingly eyes on Ron. "Are you giving away product again?"

Ron shrunk away.

"Of course not, dear, the lads already paid."

"Ron!"

Ron turned at his name, spotting Charlie scowling at him. Ron gave a sheepish wave as his brother pushed soaked bangs out of his face.

"What happened?! You were supposed to stay behind me."

"I didn't want to get wet."

Charlie threw his hands up in the air.

"I searched for you for ten minutes out there!"

Thunder cracked above the shop, acting as an exclamation point to Charlie's words.

"So it took you twenty minutes to notice I was gone?"

"You. Out. Now. Don't care. Meeting mom in five."

"Charlie Weasley," Meredith's daughter said dryly. Both brothers turned to see the woman looking at them, unimpressed. Charlie stumbled in his walk over and blushed.

"Hi! I mean, hello, you were in Bill's class, right? Sally. Ravenclaw. Prefect?"

Charlie held out his hand, but the woman didn't take it.

"The name is Sandy and I was Headgirl," she corrected, before turning back to her mother and gesturing at the pair of them. "Weasley? You expect me to believe a Weasley…"

"Hush, child, before you damn yourself of good company."

Ron was surprised by how cold Meredith Binns voice had become. He pulled self-consciously at his too short sleeves and brought his scarf closer.

"Let's go, Ron," Charlie spoke in a clipped voice, face flushed. For a moment Sandy looked regretful, but it was quickly smothered under something Ron didn't recognize. Charlie tugged at his arm, but he pulled away to look Meredith in the eye.

"Please, will you go?"

The old woman's eyes crinkled at the side.

"I will."

"Thank you."

Then they were out the door, Asha on his shoulder, all three soaked through within seconds. Ron didn't care though, his heart felt light, lighter still when the Grim followed, not having touched the baby at all.

The next day Ron stole the Daily Prophet from his mother. He found Percy flipping through a book in his room and begged him to read him one in the back that had a picture of the toy shop on it.

It was everything Ron had feared.

Meredith Binns had died last night. She had fallen down the stairs and broken her leg. Her wand had been found rolled under a nearby table, out of reach. Unable to get help, the old witch passed away, alone and in pain.

Ron had run away, Percy calling after him, to bury himself in his room.

"Tears don't work well with your complexion, dear," Asha chirped. "It makes your freckles stand out in the worst way."

Ron sobbed harder.


	2. Chapter 2: Babbitty Rabbitty

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

* * *

Chapter 2: Babbitty Rabbitty and Her Cackling Stump

"But inside the bush,

Babbitty smiled and did not trouble to lift her wand,

for no magic can raise the dead."

Before Ron turned seven he had only been able to sense a person's worst memories. Every once in a while he might catch a glimpse; a brief flash of a past moment, like when his dad had dropped the pan on his head, but for the most part Ron just sort of felt the memory. Like a frozen over pond. It was there, he could touch it, but he couldn't dive in. Which was fine with him. He knew, without ever going in, how terrible the memories were. He woke up at night, petrified and screaming from the few he'd glimpsed. He knew, without being told, that there were monsters under the surface of that pound.

He knew, for instance, that his mum's worst memory was when they brought her brother's bodies back. The memory was so strong and so awful that Ron had caught a glimpse of them, just for a split second, of two identical men, one slashed into bits, the other looking as if he were just asleep. Her grief had caused a wail to escape him. It tore through him and it didn't stop. He couldn't stop. It hurt so bad and he didn't know what to do with all the ugliness and dark stuff inside of him. Her _feelings_ were inside him and he couldn't get it out. He didn't want to eat or think or even sleep, not for days. Until the memory began to leave him, until it finally started to fade.

The worst part though, was not being able to explain what hurt.

His parents begged him to tell them what was wrong, but he couldn't describe it. He didn't know how. He wasn't physically hurt and he didn't understand why they didn't understand that a person wasn't hurting him, that they were hurting him. How could they not know that their awful feelings _hurt_?

Back then, when he was little, he thought everyone did what he did. He thought everyone knew how the people around them felt. Could see the terrible memories hiding just under the surface. Could tug them up if they wanted. Ron never wanted to tug them up though and he figured that everybody else felt the same way.

It took a while to realize that it was just _him._ That people hesitated to touch _him_ , but never his brothers, never his little sister. It had hurt at first. Hurt in a way that made his heart feel too big inside his chest, like it was trying to worm its way out to escape. And then he'd realized something else.

He made people sad.

His mum always _felt_ dark after she cuddled him. She would rub at her eyes and hug him tighter and then that would make it worse. She would spend the next day walking around in a daze. His dad would brush his fingers through his hair then his features, so tired from work, would fold in on themselves. His family didn't dislike him, Ron somehow made them dislike him. It was _his_ fault.

Ron was the problem.

The hurt had intensified, but it was nowhere close to his terror. He pretended for a while, to not know, he pretended that everything was fine. That there wasn't something wrong with him. But the longer he knew, the more obvious it seemed, the contrast in his family between when Ron was among them-making them sad, and when Ron stayed away, watching from a distance.

The way the drag in their shoulders lifted.

The way Charlie would boast when he wasn't around.

The way Bill smiled that gleaming thousand-watt thing whenever Ron watched from another room.

The way the twins played jokes rather than snarked nastily about.

The way Ginny giggled when Ron kept to himself in the corner.

And then Ron would get up, walk by, join the group, and it all went away. Not because Ron was a bad person, but because of his presence. Even when they didn't know he was there… they just… sunk into themselves. It was like Ron carried a bad cloud around him, like everyone was white clouds when the sun was out and then Ron came with scary thunder and dark, black ugliness and no moonlight at all. Just black, black, black.

So, one night when he was five (before he'd met Meredith Binns and Asha), when his dad was tucking him into bed, he had to ask.

"Are there people who can make other people sad?"

Because Uncle Bilius had told him that it was only Ron and him. No one else. Because when he was five, he still sort of believed his dad when he said Bilius was lying. When he was five, the Grim rarely showed up, and never spoke. When he was five, Ron had still believed that there was hope for him.

Arthur stared at him for a long moment, considering it, before sitting on the bed. Ron knew that if he were Ginny or Fred or George, then his dad would have pulled him into his lap. But Arthur hadn't done that in a long time. Not for Ron. He wondered if his dad even realized it.

"People make other people sad sometimes, yes. Everyone makes mistakes, they mess up or they do something, sometimes unintentionally, sometimes on purpose."

"No," Ron said firmly. "Not like that. I mean…" the seven-year-old tried to explain, "I mean, can they do it like… can they, the person, make people sad? Like the person is different and that makes people sad?"

"Different? How?" Arthur asked, his dad was peering down at him with his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Like, something that walks into a room and makes them… like magic, makes them sad. Makes bad things come to mind. Makes them want to cry," Ron tried.

His dad had paled, staring at him in wide eyed shock.

"Did you see a Dementor, son? Ronnie, did you see a creature in black shadows? Did it come near you?"

His dad was standing, marching over to the window to look outside, an almost manic manner about him. He turned, causing Ron to jump as he stared at his dad in shock. His dad whispered a spell, a weasel creature sprouted from his dad's wand, Ron flinched. The light hurt. He didn't like the light. He jumped back, his back hitting the wall hard enough that his head smacked against it. The Weasel looked at him, scrutinizing him, for a moment he thought it was going to attack. That his dad had figured out what he was and wanted to hurt him now. Then, it was gone, out the window and his dad was in front of him.

"Ronnie, did it touch you? Did that _thing_ touch you?"

"No," Ron shook his head, relieved, but fearful that his dad would make something so mean. "No it didn't touch me."

"When did you see it, Ronnie? When did you see the _thing?_ Appeared to be shrouded in darkness, not quite a face?"

"What?" Ron asked, bewildered. It had just been in _here_. He'd just seen his dad make it.

"The Dementor, Ronnie, the thing that made you feel sad? It's a foul creature. Never, ever go near one. Run if you see one. Run as fast and as far away as you can."

"A Dementor?" Ron whispered.

This time his dad did sweep him up, hugging him and rubbing his arms and whispering reassurances as he swept them both out of the room. His dad was manic with fear. Ron held tight, unsure how the conversation had led to this.

"Molly!" Arthur yelled, "Molly get the children inside! Get them all inside right now!" There was the sound of someone moving, throwing a door open, then his mum was screaming at Charlie. Fred and George came running down the stairs, eyes wide, dragging behind them a half asleep Ginny. "Where are Bill and Percy? Are they in the house Molls?"

"Goodness," Molly muttered, slamming the door shut, sealing them inside. "Percy's in his room, yes, Bills been out all day." His dad shuddered, looking terrified.

"Out? Out where?"

"Diagone Alley! Out, out! Not here. What's going on Arthur?" Molly shrieked.

"Ronnie saw a Dementor," Arthur told her, hands shaking.

"That's impossible!" Molly snapped.

"What's a Dementor?" Ron repeated, thoroughly upset now.

"He said he saw a creature that made him sad when it was near him, that made bad things come to mind. It made him cry just by being near him," Arthur told her.

That wasn't what he'd said at _all_. Ron clutched at his dad's shoulders, looking between his mum and dad. His mum was clutching at her heart, staring at him with fear.

' _Did that thing touch you?'_

It struck Ron then.

The thing his dad was so afraid of… was him.

"What's a dementor?" Ron whispered. Was it a bad person? Was it a person who made other people sad? His dad seemed to really want to get away from it. Was Ron a dementor? His mum was running her fingers through his hair, eyes locked on his dad's above him.

"Contact the Ministry, Arthur, just in case. It's probably something else, but either way, we should get an Auror out here to check."

His dad nodded. He found himself in his mum's arms. She hugged him to his bosom as she motioned for them all to gather in the living room. Once there, with their dad in the corner, speaking through the fireplace, Molly squeezed his hands tight, her voice, for once, soft.

"A Dementor is a dark creature, a beast who brings your darkest memories to the surface when its near." She shuddered. Ron listened in rapt attention. "It sucks away everything that is happy in the world. It devours your light. And if it gets close enough to touch you, it can take your very soul."

"Isn't there a spell against them though," Charlie demanded. Ron glanced at him. Awed that Charlie didn't seem to be phased at all.

"Yes," Molly answered giving her older son a warning look. "A patronus charm. It is very difficult though, most grown wizards have a hard time performing the spell. Most never succeed. It is a corporate form of light, made up of your happiest memories. It takes the form of the animal spirit most close to your heart."

"And what does that do, exactly?" Percy asked, having joined them just a moment before hand.

"The light hurts them. It drives them away," Molly answered.

Ron felt his insides freeze.

"What about people?" Ron whispered.

Molly smiled at him, pulling him closer.

"Don't worry dear, the light of a patronus only hurts Dementors. Their monsters who devour the light, but they cannot take the happiness and love of a patronus. A person would only feel warmth if it touched them. Your father can create one," Molly said, voice proud. "It's…"

"A weasel?" Ron whispered.

Remembering the decidedly NOT warm and happy thing that had come near him.

"So you saw? He must have cast it the moment he suspected…" Molly murmured.

And then the room was full of men. Men in long black robes and serious faces. Ron scrunched in closer to his mother, looking anywhere but at the men. Trying not to quail under their presence while they searched the perimeter.

And then out of their wands came the horrible things. Ron sunk deeper, if possible, into his mum's embrace, shying away from the creatures. It hurt. He flinched. The light felt like when he got too close to dad's camp fires. It felt like heat was crawling up his arms and trying to pierce under his skin. And the things were looking at him again. Animals of all sizes and shapes. But just like the Weasel they turned away from him. They zoomed out of the room in different directions.

"That was so cool!" Fred shrieked.

"We're learning that," George whispered.

"Definitely. Soon as freaking possible," Fred retorted.

"Language," Molly snapped.

"Yes mum!" Fred and George sang, automatically, though neither of them were paying her any attention, faces pressing against the window for a better view. Ron coward against his mum's bosom, flinching whenever one of the Aurors went by. Eventually the hustle and bustle died down to quiet, harsh whispers between his dad and them. They kept glancing at Ron, their eyes torn away by a sharp word or two from Arthur.

What if they found out that he was the dementor? Would the animals floating outside the windows come in to eat him? The seven-year-old decided that he would lie. Like dad and mum told him to when muggles were around. The muggles couldn't know about magic because then magic people might be in danger. It felt like that.

The Aurors couldn't know about Ron's magic because then those things would get him. It was like his dad had said: "People are afraid of what they don't understand." His dad seemed very afraid though, did that mean his dad was afraid of him? Afraid of him? Could Ron hurt them?

Then the Aurors walked into the room. Hulking, wand wielding figures whose features were thunderous as they approached. His grip on his mum tightened. And then one of them was kneeling in front of him. Ron blinked as a smile stretched across the man's face, sliding into place as easily as his mum put bread in the oven to bake. Practiced.

"Hi Ronald, my name is Mr. Withsworth. I hear you had a nasty experience with a very frightening creature. Do you think, just for a minute, that you could talk about it for me?"

His dad put a hand on him, the skin of his fingers sitting there along his neck. The vivid image a familiar slab of stone slammed into Ron's head. Despair and fear welled in the pit of his stomach. Words, sharp, pleading and drawn out tore through the air.

" _Don't let Ron near any Death! It will awaken the curse to its full potential! Dementors will worsen it, make him lose control!"_

Aching loss struck Ron.

" _The Grim is coming for me! Arthur, I love you, tell mum I love her! I won't make it to morning. Tell the family I love them! Tell the twins to keep up the good work! Tell Ron he's not a monster. I didn't mean it that way. Tell him I'm sorry!"_

Ron looked up at his dad in uncertainty, but the hand on him was warm, comforting. His dad's eyes were outside the window, looking for something. Ron knew, instinctively, that the voice had belong to his brother… no. Not _his_ brother. His dad's brother. Ron's Uncle.

"Ronald," Mr. Withsworth prompted. "Do you remember where you were when it happened? Or, at least, what happened?"

Ron nodded slowly. What if they took him to the place they took Uncle Billius? The place that made his dad feel bad? Where his Uncle hadn't come back out of?

"Everyone's sad," Ron blurted. He would tell them, but he wouldn't tell them it was him.

"Pardon me?" Mr. Withsworth said, startled.

"Everyone is sad," Ron repeated, slower this time, he looked up at his mom and his siblings before turning to the man again. "When they get away from the house, they get better. Bill and Charlie, they're really happy the first day back home and then they turn into everyone else. They get… droopy."

One of the Aurors stepped forward, Ron stared at the man's wooden leg before looking up, but flinched as a large, bugged out eye peered at him. He was a lot older than the rest of them, a scar crossing his lips.

"It's possible that theirs a group nearby," the man barked. "Kid doesn't know nothing about Dementor's but from what Arthur's said, it's clear that he's felt them. Odd though, that he's the only one who noticed."

Ron shrank into himself as the eye swiveled around to look at him. A young man stepped forward from the bunch, an Auror younger than the rest.

"But there are no Dementor's outside of Azkaban, Moody. This isn't possible."

"I'll tell you what's not possible," Moody muttered, eye swiveling from Ron to the Auror. "A bunch of Ministry officials being able to contain and control a bunch of dark creatures we as wizards don't even fully understand. That's what's impossible."

"Well, if they were once here, they've left," Withsworth sighed.

"Don't know about that," Moody growled. "Can't you feel it? In the air? We've been here, what? Thirty minutes, maybe? I'm already feeling a bit down, like I need a drink after a long hard day, but there's been nothing hard about this day. And Mr. Cheery Longfellow here hasn't cracked a joke since we apparated to this spot."

The young Auror looked startled, exchanging looks with the others. Ron felt his mum squeeze him tight. There were some nods of agreement between the men, his dad especially seemed unsettled.

"It has seemed, for a while now, that things have been… less than happy here," Arthur relented, looking at his children and his wife. "Perhaps we've not noticed because the dementors have been encroaching on the area bit by bit?"

Moody nodded slowly.

"Makes sense. Something like that though…" Moody's eye swiveled around to Ron's again. "It would be very difficult to notice for a person under such influence." Moody looked up at Arthur, silent for a long moment before making a signal to his team. "We'll sweep the area again. If we don't find anything then we'll put up shields around your home, just in case. I'll ask that the kids don't wander too far from the perimeter of the house. It may just be that they have a few hovels in the area and move from place to place. Move out!"

The team jumped into action. The Weasley lot watched them until they disappeared. When it was just Moody and them, alone in the living room, Ron watched in suspicion as Moody gestured for his dad to follow him. Ron had the sinking feeling that the crazy eyed Auror suspected Ron.

* * *

Meanwhile Arthur had been brooding about nearly the same thing. Thoughts of his brother's warnings, about Ron attracting Death were whirling in his head and not for the first time he regretted not listening.

"That boy of yours, Arthur," Moody growled glancing into the living room.

"What about my boy?" Arthur hissed.

He couldn't stop thinking about the last words he ever heard from his brother. The warning and pleading the man did. The way he'd refused to touch Ron for any reason, refused to spend any time at all with his youngest son. And _that_ night.

His _boy_ hurt by his _brother_. The same brother who'd looked after him all his life. Who'd gone out of his way to make sure Arthur was treated well and that their father wasn't too harsh with him. The same brother who, when their mother was too busy, had made him birthday cakes and scrounged up presents from nothing, who transfigured rocks into toys and played with him. The same brother who Arthur loved and had been devastated by when things turned so horribly wrong.

"There's something about that kid of yours, Arthur, an empath or something. If you don't get him trained up, he'll be jumping at shadows. Heightened sense of magic, empaths, and those who have it is a useful skill, but not knowing what he is or why he's different might affect him in negative ways. Best to take care of it early on."

"An empath, you say? It would explain some things."

Maybe Bilius had it all wrong. Maybe his brother had been able to feel dark magic and that's why he thought it was after him, why the Grim was after him. It would mean that Bilius had been suffering, not knowing what he was, misinterpreting his ability for something else. It would mean his big brother hadn't been crazy, just hurt and confused.

Arthur wasn't sure what to think of that.

"Can Empath's sense when their kind are nearby?" Arthur asked.

"Most certainly. I knew one once. She said everybody's got a unique magical signature, that she knew when her husband was walking through the door before she ever went downstairs. She said that normal witches and wizards magic is contained, centered almost. An empath's magic acts almost like arms, reaching out to the area around them."

He thought of Bilius, who'd carefully touched each of his children when they were born, who seemed relieved upon holding them for the first time. And then Ron, who'd he'd only ever held once, how he'd looked devastated after holding him that one time. His brother, who would babysit all the children except Ron.

"Does it hurt them, to be around each other?" Arthur asked, looking at Ron nervously, tense in Molly's arms. Sharp blue eyes were watching him. Did Ron know? In front of him, Moody frowned.

"I've never heard of anything suggesting as much. What I know was just heard in passing, mind you, but Empath's are rare. I know that Clare has met another Empath, but from what I gathered it was rather astounding that it happened. Once in a lifetime event. She was a German Auror. I don't know of any in England."

The two men sat in silence for a moment, both looking outside the window, trying to sense what they could not see. Then Moody glanced back at Ron, clearing his throat to bring Arthur's attention back to him. "Arthur, don't go talking too loud about this, our Minister is a rather… greedy individual and you don't want Fudge's eyes on your kid, if you get what I mean. Best to keep this quiet. Away from prying eyes and ears."

Arthur shuddered, remembering how there had once been many more Metamorphmagus families around than the Tonks. In fact there had been a number of celebrated abilities that had disappeared thirty some odd years ago and some unsavory rumors of the Department of Mysteries.

"Thank you, Alastor."

"We'll give the area a thorough look over and I'll be checking in for ya, just to make sure. Something might turn up, something might not, but my gut is telling me there's more to this situation than meets the eye. I'd trust the kid's instincts though."

Arthur walked back into the room to see Ron sitting on the couch by himself. His son was staring out the window, eyes wide and terrified. He rushed over to the window, but there was nothing there. Arthur glanced at Ron who was looking back at him now, solemn, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Arthur sat on the couch next to him, his long legs spreading out and under the coffee table.

"Ron, did you…" Arthur tried to find the right words. "Did you feel that there was something nearby, making people sad?"

Big blue eyes peered up at him in panic. Ron shook his head, staring at the floor as if asking it to transfigure itself into a beast to eat him. Arthur gently pulled his son's chin up so that he could look Ron in the eye.

"It's not a bad thing to be able to sense things, Ron, not at all, but I need you to be honest with me so that we can know how to fight this. Can you… describe how you knew we were getting sad?"

"Would you take the bad thing away?" Ron whispered.

Arthur felt his chest constrict.

"Of course, nothing is more important to me than protecting you guys. I will do whatever it takes to get rid of this. Whatever you saw, whatever you sensed or felt, you can tell me, Ron. I know it's scary, being able to feel these terrible things, but it just means you have an extra sense."

Far from reassured though, Ron had pulled away from him and looked ready to bolt.

"I don't think… the thing making people sad… where will you send it?"

Arthur frowned, not quite understanding what Ron was asking.

"The Dementor? The Aurors will make sure it goes to Azkaban. Where it belongs."

Ron stared wide eyed before his gaze fell to his lap. Arthur grimaced as he realized Ron most likely had listened in to Charlie tormenting the twins with tales of Azkaban, threatening to contact the Ministry to take them away if they didn't stop sneaking critters in his shoes.

"Little boys are not sent to Azkaban," Arthur said sternly. "Only monsters and criminals are sent there, which you are neither."

Ron did not seem reassured though.

It wasn't until later that night that Arthur realized Ron might still believe Bilius's words from _that_ night. If Ron associated this 'empath' ability with monster then... he spent many nights after that reassuring Ron that his brother's words were lies.

* * *

After that, Ron refused to ever talk about his problems or his ability, he'd learned the terrible consequences of being truthful. Only Meredith Binns had ever learned of his secret. Instead, he tried his best to ignore it altogether. He tried to keep a positive attitude and to keep himself as far from his family as possible.

But today was a special day.

Fred and George's birthday was being held outside. It was hot and miserable and his skin itched as if crackle ants were sparking his skin, but his brothers were happy. Laughing and joking and running around like the heat was nothing more than a pleasant summer breeze and the sun was bright rather than murderous.

Ron was sticking to the shade, waiting anxiously for the singing to start, annoyed they were being forced to wait for Muriel to arrive. Might as well toss the cake out and light the ice cream on fire with how long it took her bones to get into a dress. Merlin, she was probably trying to put make up on too, as if it _helped_.

"Can't we just dress up the ghoul in Muriel's clothing, dear? No one could tell the difference," Asha piped up from his shoulder. Ron grinned from his spot under the table, but the wooden bird continued. "This really won't do. You're a delicate flower. You can't be out in the sun for so long."

"Where'd you learn _that_ phrase from?" Ron hissed in dismay.

"Muriel also said that if she'd ever seen the living embodiment of the twins opposite, it would be you. Not a drop of Prewitt blood in you."

Asha pecked at his cheek, an indication that this was a question, a concept she didn't understand despite the statement.

"Tis true," a castle chess piece called up, "of all the large folk, you are the least impressive in spirit."

"Sod off," Ron muttered moodily.

"Those are not your best words, Ronald," Asha bristled.

"Sod off, please."

"Much better."

Ron rolled his eyes.

A familiar crack filled the air and Ron rushed out to see Muriel arriving, hairs pinned to her head by a thousand mini clips. She was covered, head to toe, hat to shoe, in maroon.

"Really, Muriel?" Asha chirped, far too perky to be genuine. Another trick Ron blamed on the old coot.

"Hush," Ron and Muriel both told the mirror bird. Ron rushed to the chess set, taking them off the board and setting them up along the cake table. A black knight gave him a wave for the okay and Ron retreated to a corner to await in glee, absently scratching at the back of his hand.

His mother and Muriel talked _forever_ and Ron thought that was mighty dangerous behavior with the twins lurking about, ready to bring down the full glory of April 1st upon them all. Finally they made their way towards the table and everyone else wandered over. Ginny showed up, every inch covered in sparkles and preening like a proud cat, and Percy trailing behind her looking like a proud parent. The twins appeared put upon and exasperated while Lee Jorden was snickering and giving the twins consolidating pats.

Ron rocked back and forth in anticipation, scratching at his wrist again, the feel of sweat rubbing between his fingers. On que Asha whistled sharply.

"Looking good Fredrick. Very dashing George, the glitter really emphasizes your tan."

George gave himself a panicked pat down as Fred snickered.

"Good one, Ronnie!"

George paused and scowled, but nodded approvingly.

"Birds as much of a nuisance as the twins," Muriel muttered darkly. "A terrible influence to boot."

"She's just sayng that because she has terrible fashion sense," Asha stage whispered.

Molly Weasley chortled behind her hand before shooting Muriel an apologetic smile. The old witch's face remained stony.

"Shall we?" Muriel asked imperiously, to which the snickering spread to the children. "There's not an ounce of respect between the lot of you."

Molly ignored her, waving her wand and lighting the candles.

"One, two…" Before Molly made it to three a set of thirty two chess pieces broke out into uncoordinated, high pitched singing.

'Sappy Birthday to the fools

Sappy Birthday to the fools

We all they rules

Sappy Birthday dear fooooUUUOOOOoools

Even though Fred drools

The bad news is we sing off key

The good news is we sing for free!

Happy Sappy Birthday

We've got left to saaaaaaay

Hay!

Fred and George were falling over each other even as Muriel's face went three shades passed red into 'plum.'

"How'd you get them to cooperate?" Fred demanded.

Grandpa Weasley's chess set was notoriously difficult to handle.

Ron shrugged, grinning shyly. George moved towards him, his smile beginning to falter. Ron moved back. Not today. He wouldn't ruin things for them today of all days. Ron waved them towards the cake and ice cream.

"Go blow out your candles!"

But his hand waving had caught Fred's attention, his eyes going wide. Before Ron could blink Fred was there, grasping his hands and turning them over.

"What have you done?" Fred muttered. Confused, Ron looked down at his hands, they were covered in deep cuts and red spatters across his skin. George walked up behind Fred, looking over his twin's shoulder.

"Jeez, Ron, you've scratched the living crap out of them."

"Mum!" Fred called. "Ron's got a rash!"

George leaned forward and Ron gave an indignant squeak as George tugged at the collar of his shirt and looked down.

"It's on his chest too. Think it's contagious?"

"Don't know, but it ain't the dragon pox. He got those from Gin."

"It kinda looks like a sunburn," George muttered.

"You don't scratch sun burns," Fred said, a horrified look on his face. "That would be mental. Has to be something else."

"We get you outside for five minutes and you've already contracted something. When we said that you were allergic to adventure, we didn't mean it literally," George joked.

"Not allergic to adventure," Ron muttered, scratching at the burning itch on his hip.

"Stop that," Fred snapped, grabbing his wrist. "Geez, you've got blood under your fingers! How long have you been doing this?!"

"Oh my goodness! Ronald, what have you done?!" Molly fretted, spotting Ron as she followed her boy's call.

"Why is this my fault?" Ron demanded. "It just… itches. I didn't do anything."

"I saw you crawling under the tables, young man, don't think I didn't notice."

"He's like a spotted lizard now," George said, "big eyes and patchy skin."

"I have some cream in the house, give me a moment, boys, your father will cut the cake and then you can open your presents. Cross your arms, Ron, no scratching."

Ron scowled, but did as he was told, following his mother into the house and sitting patiently as she took his shirt off and rubbed sticky cold cream across his body. It felt gross and didn't help to stop the itch at all. If anything, it seemed to make the burning worse.

"I'll have to check to see what plants are under those tables," Molly muttered.

"It's not the plants," Ron told her, annoyed. It was never the plants. Ron always itched and burned outside. Sometimes it was bad and sometimes he hardly noticed. Unless it was raining. When the clouds were black and grey, Ron never felt any burning at all. Today wasn't even a bad day. It only hurt a little.

"Oh, then what is it then?" Molly asked, amused.

Ron frowned, scratching at his wrist again, but his mum smacked his hand lightly, giving him a warning look.

"It's hot outside," Ron answered, because it was the only thing that really made sense, when it was hotter, the rash was worse. When it was cold, he still felt it, but not as bad. Except… well, when it snowed it was really bad. Swimming was also a big no. Maybe it wasn't the heat. Ron tried again. "I always get itchy outside."

"Maybe you're allergic to something outside," his mum muttered, "pollen or grass or something."

"I'm not allergic to adventure," Ron told her firmly. "I like trying new things and fighting dragons and dark lords and stuff. Well, not real ones… I mean, I'd do it in real life too, but…"

"My word, you would fight a dragon? I'm fairly certain Charlie wouldn't be very happy with you."

"Charlie cuddles Snallygasters in his dreams," Ron muttered mutinously.

Molly paused before snickering.

"You know, you're probably right." Ron winced as the cream was spread over his skin. For a moment an icy cold feeling stretched over his skin, as if she had put ice cubes into each of the scratches, and then it was gone. His mum wiped the cream away to reveal clear, unhurt skin. "Why don't you stay inside and I'll bring you some cake and ice cream in here?"

Ron nodded, though it was a good day today, none of his family seemed to be feeling the effects Ron caused and he wanted to take advantage of that by being with them.

"Can you bring Asha in? She can't fly more than a few feet."

' _And I don't want to be alone.'_

"Of course, baby, why don't you go upstairs and take a shower? I want whatever it is that your allergic to off your skin. No scratching."

"Yes, mum."

After showering, Ron joined Asha by the window where the bird kept watch over his cake and ice cream. Fred and George were finished opening presents, tossing a relatively new looking Prattle Ball from one to the other over Ginny's much shorter reach. Ron watching with growing envy as they laughed and Ginny yelled. Without much notice, he scratched at his wrists again.

~~~Babbitty Rabbitty and Her Cackling Stump~~~

Babbity Rabbity and the Cackling Stump was his favorite story. Ginny liked the one with the three witches and the knight, which was okay, but it wasn't as great as the clever witch. Ron would often take the book upstairs to read to himself. It was a bit hard, as some of the words were difficult, but it was better than exhausting his mum.

He didn't like to think about the affect he had on his family, but it was getting harder to ignore. Where once Ron could stand a few feet away from his brothers and not notice a difference, now Ron could walk in a room and it would happen. The monster part of him was getting stronger. The more his ability got out of control the more often he'd spot the Grim watching him.

Grim had taken to the form of a bird as of late. He'd found his eyes unintentionally being drawn to it. As if Meredith Binns death had opened up a gap in his chest and there was a chain dragging him in the direction of the creature.

This morning Ginny smiled and hurried him over to show him a picture she was drawing. She reached for a pink crayon, but when Ron had leaned over her, she'd stopped. She'd grabbed the black one instead and started to get all weepy.

"It's stupid!" Ginny snapped.

Taken back by her change in attitude, Ron had looked at her.

"What's stupid?"

"My picture, no one likes it!"

"That's not true, I like it, Gin-Gin."

But Ginny was gone. She dragged the black crayon over her picture of a dragon. Ruining it. Ron took a few steps back. Nothing changed. Ron took a few more steps back, until he was out of the room. Ginny rubbed at her face and blinked down at the paper blankly. Ron took a few more steps back. Ginny looked down at the crayon, abashed and horrified by what she'd done. She gave Ron a questioning look.

"Why don't you make another one? That one was really cool," Ron told her quietly.

She nodded, grabbing another white paper. She sniffled again, patting the chair next to her for Ron to sit. Ron shook his head though. Frightened. When he turned, it was to flee all the way up the stairs until he was in his room.

Every day it seemed that Ron's monster got a little bigger. Until Ron couldn't be in the same room as his family. Until being on the same floor started to bother them.

When he was little, dinners were these really great things with people laughing and telling jokes and talking about their day, but now no one talked. They picked at their food and then they disappeared, as if just being around each other was too much.

But Ron knew the truth.

He didn't know how or why, but he knew that Ron himself was the cause of it. It used to be that Ron would have to touch someone for them to get sad, but now… Now it was spreading. He was a monster and he didn't know how to make it stop.

"Ron! Ronniekins! We got some sparklers, come light one with us!" George called.

Ron watched them from the second-floor platform, his Cannon Figures halfway through a barrel dive into the final portion of the match. He shook his head, hard, looking down at the quidditch figurines.

"Come on, Ron! Don't be such a glum bum," Fred called.

"Go get Gin!" Ron called from his perimeter.

"We already gave her one!" George called out in exasperation. "Fred's right, don't be a Percy, you're gonna end up being a stick in the mind who no one likes, you know!"

"The Cannons are winning!" Ron protested.

The twins exchanged grins.

"We'll you're one step ahead of Perce, I guess," George drawled.

"Perce has no imagination. Good on you, Ronnie!" Fred added.

"But seriously, if you don't come down then I'm gonna come up!" George called in warning.

Ron sighed, but trudged down the stairs. Every step he took drained George of the silly grin on his face. Ron cringed as he saw George wilt a little bit, the hand holding the sparklers falling to his side. He took a step back and then scrambled up the stairs.

"I don't want to play with you!" Ron called, picking his quidditch players back up.

George, having the cheer taken from him, scowled.

"Fine then. It's not like you would have been any fun anyways, you never are," George snapped.

Fred, down on the first floor, frowned up at George.

"Georgie," Fred called, unsure.

"No, he's always like this. Moping around and always dragging everyone else down with his attitude," George snapped.

Ron flinched, picking up his toys and heading further up the stairs.

Fred, normally the more callous of the twins, was staring at George in complete bewilderment. Out of sight, Ron heard Fred joining George on the first flight of stairs.

"Yeah, he is a little ball of misery, but that's why we wanted to get him to join us, wasn't it? Thought we could cheer him up." Fred asked. Ron leaned against the wall as he listened in. The hard lines on George's face lightened just the tiniest bit.

"What is wrong with him?" George muttered. "How can someone be so…"

"Depressing?" Fred suggested.

"He's like a little black cloud," George sighed. "It doesn't matter what he's doing, whether he's playing or crying or just walking about. It's like seeing the saddest kicked dog ever."

Fred nodded.

"It's not even fun to prank him!" Fred added, as if this was the mark of true horror.

Ron ran up the stairs.

There were a few things that made Ron happy. Asha, of course, his Cannon Quidditch figures, his book of stories, and the bright orange paint of his walls. The last because his mum had told him once that it matched his personality; bright. Which was the one and only time anything like it had ever been said. It cheered him up, to see the walls, and to imagine what it might be like if the monster didn't stock his steps.

Ron was only seven years old, but he knew whatever his ability was, it wasn't the Grim's fault. Like the Veela, his power seemed to work whether the Grim was there or not, no, whatever it was that made everyone despair around him, it had to do with something else. But… pretending it was a monster, perhaps the Grim, made him feel better. Like it was separate from himself.

Like it wasn't his fault.

Shortly after Ginny's sixth birthday, even weirder things began to take place. Sensations. Emotions. Things that didn't belong to him. Like the time Ginny got very sick. It seemed like a long time ago, but when she'd handed him a Lemon Poppy muffin Ron suddenly felt that it was happening in that instant. It felt as if his throat was on fire and everything was heavy, his legs, his arms, his head, it felt too heavy. He couldn't lift it. It was scary! She didn't like this at all. Where was mummy? Her head felt like wet, hot cotton, but her toes were cold.

Ron tore away from Ginny, his sister looking equally unhappy

"Mummy," she called, "I don't feel good."

His sister was tearing up. Ron felt sick to his stomach. Had he caused that? That wasn't him. He knew this, instinctively, that had been Ginny. He'd dragged it up somehow. Dragged up that terrible memory from the depths, bringing it to the surface. He'd felt her illness inside of him for the briefest of moments.

Worse.

Ron had enjoyed it. Not the memory itself. The sensation of pulling it outwards. It had felt as if he were taking something warm with it, like running his finger through warm water on a cold day.

"Son, are you alright? Was the muffin too hot? Did it burn you?"

Ron jerked towards the voice, his dad, looking at him in concern. It was then that he realized that he'd dropped the muffin. The fresh breakfast treat now cooling on the kitchen's tile floor. Ron picked it up and put it in the garbage.

"I don't feel good either," Ron blurted. "Em' not hungry. Can I go lie down?"

Dad reached out to him, but Ron jumped back. Staring at his dad's hands in fear. What if that happened every time? Why had he liked it?

"Ron, let your father check on you," his mum said sternly.

Ron shook his head.

"I just wanna go to sleep," Ron said quietly, backing away from them.

"And I'll tuck you in," his dad promised, watching him carefully, "but let's make sure it isn't too serious, alright?"

Ron took a step back, but found himself against the corner of the kitchen counter. He shied away from his dad's touch, slouching out of the hands reach until his bum was on the floor. Arthur's large hands touched his skin, they were rough and warm, but nothing more. No bad memories came. His dad lost a little of the twinkle in his eyes though.

It made him wonder, not for the first time, why none of his family seemed to notice what Ron did to them. How could they not see the way he made everyone unhappy?

"You don't seem to have a fever," Arthur murmured. His dad's arms closed around him, pulling him closer. Arthur hugged him. Fierce, firm, loving. Ron looked up at his dad to see his dad watching him with a searching look. Maybe his dad did know. Maybe he did see it. Then why was he holding Ron so close? Ron leaned into the touch, savoring it.

"You want to tell me what's wrong, buddy?" His dad asked, almost like he was pleading with him.

Ron almost told him.

But then he thought of Uncle Billius.

Hands just like his dad's. Holding a long knife against his throat.

 _'There's a monster inside of you, Ronnie, I have to kill it. I have to.'_

Crazy Uncle Billius who wasn't crazy at all.

"My head just hurts," Ron said instead.

His dad's shoulder's slumped. Ron found himself being picked up and tucked against his dad's chest, heading towards his bedroom. They went up all the flights of stairs and hallways to the last room in the house. Ron always wondered how, if Ginny was the youngest, how his room came to be the last room? Everyone else was in order. His mum and dad on the first level, Bill then Charlie, Percy's room on the third floor, the twins and Ginny on the fourth. And then him. Right before the attic.

He didn't wonder why.

Rather, he wondered if it was something they'd done subconsciously or on purpose.

His dad tucked him in and kissed his forehead, stroking his hair before performing a few healing 'check-ups.' Ron was all clear, of course, but his dad let him stay anyways. He waited until he could no longer hear the sounds of his father leaving. Until the gentle thump of the ghoul above him was the only noise being made.

Then Ron sat up in bed and stared at his hands, trying to figure out just what he was. What he was and how he could stop being what he was. Uncle Billius seemed to think that it could be stopped by a knife. He still wasn't sure if his Uncle had been trying to kill him or do something else, it didn't really matter though, cause the man was dead. Only a day after that incident.

 _'The Grim's touch is inside you_.'

Death. The Grim Reaper. Ron didn't kill people though. He just made them sad. He was a sad maker. Which sucked. Really, really, really, really, sucked. But he was pretty sure he didn't own anything cool enough to be called a scythe.

Ron didn't understand how the creature that stalked him could be inside of him. He didn't understand why he and his Uncle could see the thing but no one else. He didn't understand why he was given such awful things.

He'd heard stories of those who could make themselves look different and Veela's who could charm people and empaths who knew how people felt, but they didn't _cause_ bad things to happen. They had gifts. They had special abilities. They were good.

Ron was just… he was awful. He was a monster. Maybe his Uncle had been right to try to kill him. Maybe that was the best solution. He didn't want this. He didn't want to do bad things to people. Like Meredith Binns. What if Ron had brought the Grim to the toy shop? What if it was his fault she died?

A clicking noise drew his attention to his dresser. Asha's yellow eyes were watching him, her head tilting to the side, jerking as it tried to right itself.

"Dearie, are you alright?"

He wished he could have Babbitty Rabbitty's ability. Turning into a rabbit and fleeing from all her problems. Disappearing into the night as if she never existed. He wished Uncle Bilius had told him why it was just them. Why they were alone.

"Do you really think there's a Fountain?" Ron asked instead.

"A fountain?" Asha repeated, her wooden feathers ruffled as naturally as a real bird. "I don't understand."

"There's a tale about a fountain that can fix all problems, though I suppose it's not really real. The three witches and the knight fixed their own problems on the way to the fountain. It was normal water."

"I don't understand."

Ron sighed.

"I'll have to read it to you." Ron laid down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. "I guess the point though… is that they had to fix their own problems. They had to find their own solutions."

That's what he'd have to do. He'd have to find a way to make himself normal. He'd have to stop it somehow. He could only hope that the solution to his problem, to the Grim, to his dark abilities, wasn't found at the end of a knife.

~~~Babbitty Rabbitty and Her Cackling Stump~~~

Ron secretly loved rainy days. The wind and thunder always made him feel energized, even social enough to try to play with his siblings. On these days, when his spirits were up and he felt good, like he could conquer the world, it was like his little black cloud had floated up into the thunderstorm and disappeared for a bit. As if his cheer made the monster shy away.

On these days he only affected his family a little. They would drink hot cocoa and have whip cream wars and chat and build forts. Ron _loved_ it. Ron adored these moments.

Ginny had called him a Thunderbird once. He'd cocked his head and she'd grabbed his hand and pulled him in to whisper in his ear. As if they were real friends, real family, like she _loved him_. It was all so brilliant.

"Normally you're the knight," she told him. "The luckless knight whose unhappy about everything, but when it rains…" Ginny spread her arms wide, making an exploding sound. "You're like a thunder bird."

"And you've seen one of those, have you?" Ron teased.

"Aunt Muriel has. She said it lit up the sky and caused all the wizards and witches to pause and look. Like you."

Ron's ears turned red.

"Thanks, Gin-gin."

And then she hugged him and Ron thought he might burst with joy.

* * *

The sun beat down in a cloudless sky and Ron was miserable. Their mum had banished them outside a few hours ago so she could prepare for Muriel's visit in peace. At eight years Ron would admit to anyone bother to ask that he hated these days, not understanding how his siblings could stand to be out in the sunlight, the sharp sting against skin or the nausea or dizziness that always seem to come with. They bounced around the yard like a bunch of gnomes in the grass. Running and screaming and all sorts of nonsense that made him feel faint just watching them from under the relative safety of his tree.

"Come on, Ron!" Charlie called, his features set in exasperation. Ron glowered, wishing Bill hadn't gone to Egypt last year. Bill wouldn't hackle him. Percy, the git, had been able to stay inside because Percy was quiet. Ron could be quiet. He knew how to stay in his room with his Cannon figures. But nooooo, Ron had been lumped in with the twins and Ginny and Charlie.

"Does the little vampire not want to play?" Fred mocked.

"You're gonna just sit there _all_ day?" George added, eyeing the dwindling shadow and his brother's seemingly shrinking form with it.

"Just leave me alone," Ron hissed, though the words didn't have the sharp, cutting ring he wanted them to, instead they felt soupy in his mouth, traveling thick and difficult and slow. Before he knew it there were hands on him, pulling him up and away from the tree and it _hurt._ Tears stung his eyes and Ron curled into a ball.

Charlie looked unamused.

"Stop being such a wet blanket, Ron. We're not forcing you to face a troll or tossing you in a pit. It's tag; fresh air, running, exercise. It's good for you."

"Don't bother, Charlie," Fred said in disgust, "He's Percy's man."

"Except Ron doesn't even _read_ ," George added, "so he's not even as smart as Percy."

"Take me inside please," Ron cried, not caring how it confirmed their words or how pathetic it sounded, because it _hurt_. It hurt and he didn't want to be here and he wasn't sure if he could even crawl back to the house at this point.

"Ronnie?" Charlie's voice had lost its sharp edge. Charlie's hand moved from his arm to his back. The loss of support dropped him to his knees and he found that sick feeling in his gut come up. Ron threw up across the grass.

"Shite!" Charlie picked him up, cradling him against his shoulder in a way he hadn't for a long time. "Fred, tell mum!"

"Charlie!" George called.

"A little busy," Charlie muttered, Ron felt them moving towards the house.

"Charlie, there's blood!"

Ron had never heard George's voice crack before. Suddenly he felt Charlie shoot forward. His brother was running. Ron clutched at his chest, trying not to vomit again. He felt it slipping through though, warm and thick.

"Mum! Shite. Shite. Shite. Percy!"

A plate crashed to the floor. Ron was laid on something hard and flat, the table, he thought, but wasn't sure. There was shouting and faces swimming in and out of his vision.

Then nothing.

Charlie's knuckle's cracked. The noise startled him enough that he jerked. He hadn't realized he'd been clenching his fingers quite so hard. Ginny, tucked in at his side, turned over in her sleep. The twins were both passed out on either side of him and Percy was pacing enough that even the Healers were watching him in annoyance.

It had been hours since Ron had been brought into St. Mungo's and neither of his parents had come out again since following Ron into the emergency ward. Over and over he thought about those last few moments with Ron. The blood coating his teeth and dribbling down his chin. The healer shrieking when she walked into the kitchen, turning him over and babbling about Ron choking on his own blood as it fell onto the floor.

He couldn't figure it out though. Nothing had happened. Ron had spent almost the entire time refusing to move from the shade of the tree. Ron must have been feeling really sick before they even went out, but why wouldn't he have said anything? Why wouldn't he have just said 'oh, hey, I really don't feel good, can I lie down?' Not that it would have stopped him from throwing up blood, but if they'd known he wasn't feeling good then they could have check on him then maybe they could have known it was something bad and…

"What do you think it is?" Percy broke into his thoughts.

Charlie eyed Percy in surprise. His little brother considered himself 'too smart' to ever ask 'muscle head' Charlie anything. It spoke volumes to just how spooked he was.

"I don't know. He was fine this morning," Charlie answered honestly. "I saw him in his room playing chess with himself, arguing with the pieces."

Ron rarely asked any of them to play with him. Charlie suspected it was Ron's odd withdrawn nature rather than wanting to be alone. Which, granted, didn't make any sense. Nothing about his youngest brother had ever made sense though. Charlie didn't get Ron. He wasn't quiet. He wasn't shy. He wasn't antisocial. Yet he kept back, like he didn't think anyone liked him. He acted like anyone of them would suddenly, spontaneously strike out at him.

"I would play chess with him." Charlie looked up at the words to see Percy had crossed his arms over his chest, hugging himself as he stared vacantly at the little ones. "If he asked me, I would play chess with him," Percy repeated.

"Course you would, Perce, you're a good kid," Charlie told him, trying to relieve some of the guilt that seemed to be dripping from his little brother even though he didn't understand why it was there in the first place.

"I'm the observant one though," Percy muttered. "I always know when the twins are up to no good or Gin-Gin needs a cuddle or mum needs help or if dad needs time in the garage to fiddle."

Charlie would argue that if Percy was that observant then he wouldn't be the victim of so many of the twin's pranks, but decided to leave it alone.

"That doesn't mean it's your responsibility to know if something is wrong every minute of every day," Charlie told him, trying for wise, but there was an edge of exasperation. Patience was Bill's thing, not his. Charlie had never been good at this, so when Percy twisted around mid-pace to face Charlie with a look of thunder on his face, he was at a loss for what to say.

"I don't like to watch Ron though," Percy whispered. His little brother started pacing again, looking both guilty and desperate. "He's just so… he's always so… depressing. I hate being around him. He's never done anything mean or anything. It's just…"

Charlie felt a lump in his throat because he understood. He got it. It was that same odd contradiction because Ron was a great little kid. On paper. Being around him though… it was exhausting. Hanging out with Ron was like welcoming rocks to just… cling to every inch of you.

"Don't blame yourself. We've all felt that way at some point," Charlie mumbled.

"But WHY?! Why do I feel like that? Why do we all feel like that? It isn't right!"

"I don't know."

The door opened and Charlie practically jumped out of his own skin in his haste to get to his father. Ginny startled awake, clinging to him and looking around in bleary confusion. Percy made it there before him, ringing his hands and not bothering to push his glasses up when they slid far enough down to be in danger of falling off completely.

"What happened!? Is he okay? No, sorry, stupid question, is he going to be okay?" Percy sputtered.

Their dad looked about ready to collapse, but he managed to scrape up a shaky smile.

"He's going to live. There are some things we need to talk about though. Percy, my boy, will you go wake the twins? There's a Healer's office that is being held for us so that we can talk in private."

Charlie felt a chill go down his back. 'Oh no,' his mind whispered, 'Merlin, no.' Charlie did pretty decently in school. He'd been made a prefect last year and though his talents lingered more in the outdoors side of things like Quidditch, Care for Magical Creatures, and Herbology; _all_ of his teachers appreciated him for his ready understanding of hands on application. He was smart, just not in the book sense that Percy excelled at and held to such high acclaim. And right now all of his hands on experience with animals was telling him that they were being backed into a corner for containment.

"We're ready," Percy said. He had both the twins by the hand. The nine-year-old's looked disgruntled and defiant, but too tired to put up much of a fight. The clan of red heads made their way down the halls to find themselves in a spacy office. His growing pool of dread noted that the cushy space belonged to a very well-paid Healer, a specialist, someone high up. If Ron needed someone like that… When they made it into the office, Arthur Weasley buried his face into his hands. Charlie was so startled by this that he very nearly dropped Ginny.

"Dad?" Charlie prodded.

"Yes, just… give me a second Charlie. I'll explain. I'm sorry for scaring you."

"What's wrong with, Ronnie?" Ginny whispered.

He wasn't sure if their dad heard her for how silent he was being. Charlie hiked her up his hip again, the seven-year-old getting much too big for him to carry for extended periods of time, but feeling that they both needed it in that moment.

"Ron's magic works… different than ours," dad said carefully.

"What's so different about it?" Fred grumbled.

"Ron can't control his magic, it's acting on its own," dad started.

"But that's accidental magic," George cut in. "We've done it a ton."

"Not like this, son, Ron's magic is constantly surrounding him and contorting sunlight into a toxin."

Charlie hugged Ginny to him, staring at the seriousness on his dad's face.

"You're pulling our leg, right?" George pleaded. "Ron just caught a nasty bug or some such and the numpty has to stay overnight, but he'll be fine."

Arthur Weasley reached out and pulled both the twins to him, embracing them in a fierce hug. Then he looked up and reached over to grab Percy, pulling the for once not reluctant kid into an embrace as well.

"Listen, it's gonna be a bit hard for a while, especially for Ron, but we're all gonna get through this and adjust."

"What do you mean 'adjust'?" Charlie whispered in dawning horror. "They can fix this, right? You said Ron's gonna be fine, so they've got an antidote for this, right?"

When his dad looked up, Charlie readjusted his father's definition of 'fine' to 'not well, but I can't say that.'

"They've never seen anything like this before, Charlie boy, not once. They don't have a quick fix for this. And there's more."

Ginny started to feel unbearably heavy. Charlie sank into one of the office chairs near him and gestured for him to go one. Percy too took a seat and the twins plopped onto the floor where they stood.

"Ron's magic doesn't just contort the light in the air. It contorts emotions in the air too. Ron's magic has been reaching out and contorting our emotions into a toxin of sorts. Twisting them."

All the air in his chest fled. All the parts of his brother that had never quite made sense were falling into place. Ron looking hesitantly from the other room, unwilling to come in, but always looking like he desperately wanted to. Fleeing whenever Charlie asked him to come over. Ron playing by himself. Ron talking to chess pieces and Cannon Quidditch players instead of his family. Ron unwilling to hug anyone or touch anyone. As if he'd been hurt, but _no one_ in the Weasley family would ever hurt Ron. Ever.

"He knows," Charlie said quietly, "doesn't he?"

His dad's face really crumbled then.

"Ron is under the belief that there is a monster inside him and is terrified that now that we know about the monster we won't want him anymore. So, in a sense, he knew. He says Bilius told him about the monster and that he wasn't supposed to tell anyone about it. Bilius told him that only one in each generation of the Weasley family inherits it."

"Fuck," Charlie breathed.

"Language, Charlie," Arthur snapped. _'At least in front of the little ones.'_

"Sorry. Sorry, it's just… that's so f… messed up. How could Uncle Bilius do that to him?" Charlie asked.

Because Weasley's didn't do that to one another. They were blood traitors because they stood up for the weak and defended those who didn't have rights or a say. His Uncles… all of them, Uncle Bilius included, had fought against Voldemort. They believed in family and held strong with the Order of the Phoenix. Charlie might not always like that they were poor or some of the decisions his parents made, but he had _always_ been proud of them. He'd _always_ felt that the love and close connection in their family made up for the lack of material wealth.

"Because your Uncle believed it," Arthur said quietly. "He suffered the same affliction. He and my father, your grandfather, both suffered it. I remember Bilius never went outside, but he was a lot like Percy, a book in his hand all the time. He was very social, he just… he always had his pockets full to the brim with cheer charms and I never knew why. I thought it was how he flirted with girls, giving them cheer charms and… well… that's… neither here nor there."

"So Ron's not the first," Percy pointed out.

"He's the first case the Healers have seen," Arthur corrected. "Until then we're going to have to be careful. I'm going to have to set up the house so that no natural sunlight gets in and you guys are going to have to actively fight against Ron's magic. I want you to try to think of happy thoughts around Ron, try to think of your magic going outwards, like a barrier. For so long we…"

It was the first time he'd seen his dad cry.

Right there in the Healer's office, choked off sobs that ebbed and flowed for several long minutes, scaring the ever-living shit out of all his children in the process, Charlie included. Ginny struggled in his arms, and when Charlie released her she ran over to their dad and threw her arms around him. Arthur brought her into his lap, cuddling and sniffling as he tried to control his emotions.

"Sorry, I'm alright princess, I'm okay."

"I'm a witch, remember? Not a princess," Ginny corrected him, wiping his tears away with her shirt.

Arthur smiled.

"I thought we agreed you could be both."

Ginny shook her head.

"Ron says princesses are lame, but witches are cool 'cause witches never need to be saved. So I'm a witch."

"Did he?" Charlie watched his dad's smile falter. "Well, do you think you can be a brave little witch for me then?"

"Sure!"

"Alright, I need you and your brothers to do something very brave, okay? No matter how much Ron says that he doesn't want to play, I want you to try to play with him. I want you to tell him he's not a monster and that we all love him very much. That's going to be hard until we can find a solution to this. Do you think you can do it?"

When his dad looked up at him and his brothers, Charlie nodded. From the corner of his eye he could see Percy nodding his head vigorously. The twins didn't seem to fully understand, but they eventually nodded slow, but firm. Ginny…

"Ron says its worse when we touch him."

"What?" Arthur asked, startled. "What do you mean by that? Did you know?"

Ginny fiddled with her shirt, refusing to look up.

"Ginny, you're not in trouble, but I need to know as much as I can and your brother isn't opening up too much right now. Please, tell me what you know," Arthur prodded. Charlie waited with bated breath as Ginny's big brown eyes widened as she looked up at him, looking unsure and sad.

"Ronnie always looks like he needs a hug," Ginny said quietly. "So I tried to hug him, but Ron won't let me. He said the sadness gets really, really, _really_ bad when someone touches him and that it takes days for them to get over. He said not to tell anyone though cause I'm the only one who tries to hug him, so I'm the only one that needs to know, but if you guys are going to hug him then you need to know." Ginny leaned forward, long red hair falling into her face as she continued solemnly. "He won't let me come to his bed after a nightmare either. He says he'll make it worse. And he won't color with me or sit next to me or…"

Now Ginny was tearing up. She buried her head in their dad's chest, but Charlie was struck by something else. He _hadn't_ tried to hug Ron in… Godric. He couldn't even remember. He'd hugged Percy just three days ago… well, mainly because he knew his brother was annoyed by it and it was funny to see the far too dignified eleven-year-old squirm. He practically carried Ginny from room to room when he came home for the summer and Christmas holidays. He wrestled with the twins not even earlier that afternoon. Ron though… Merlin, he couldn't even remember hugging him when he'd gotten off the Hogwart's express. Had he even been there?

No, he had been.

He remembered feeling so excited to be coming home and seeing everyone. Telling them about his new girlfriend, about how well he'd down on his O.W.L Exams, and how he thought he had a good chance of making Quidditch Captain next year. Then… after he'd hugged his mother and his siblings, he'd just… it hadn't felt important anymore. He suddenly felt that it just wasn't all that interesting and that he was so exhausted from the train ride that he should probably just head up to bed.

Bloody hell. It worked fast, didn't it? And Ron knew about it. He knew he was the source, the cause, and had isolated himself as far from his family as he could. What must have that been like?

"We should have a better chance against this now that we know," Percy said resolutely. "If we're aware of what's going on, then we can separate those bad emotions and look at them logically. I'm not saying that I think it will be a magical fix, but I think if we can categorize and identify those emotions Ron is clearly affecting that it will be easier to identify our real emotions."

Charlie smiled proudly and for the first time he thought that in three weeks, when his brother went to Hogwarts for his sorting, he just might be separated into Gryffindor. Not that he would care if he was sorted into Ravenclaw. Alright. He would. As far as Percy was concerned he wouldn't care one bit though, but it would be so much better for him to be in Gryffindor, teach him how to have fun, make friends, and all that. He really hoped Percy was a lion.

"Can we see Ron now?" Fred demanded. "So he's a little black cloud, we get it, it's not really news. His whole doom and gloom act has been him since forever."

"But not really," George cut in. "It's not who he is. It's what he is, so now we need to figure out who he is underneath that, right?"

"Absolutely," Fred agreed. "We've got to pull him out from beneath the cloud and tell him not to be such a sodden coward and face us!"

All the hype and excitement, the determination… was for naught. When they arrived in the room, Ron was fast asleep. Percy looked equal parts relieved and disappointed and Charlie guessed his little brother had already concocted a speech to go along with all that bravado because even if he did turn out to be a lion, he was a glasses wearing, book toting awkward one.

Charlie put his hand on Percy's shoulder mouthing 'tomorrow' and cocking a smile on his face at Percy's embarrassed blush. Molly Weasley was already seated in a chair next to Ron's hospital bed, stroking his hand and trying to dab at her too red eyes. She welcomed Ginny into her lab, scooping the little princess into her lap like second nature. Charlie stayed back with his dad, nudging his shoulder against the man's arm, trying to be comfort and reassurance when his experience was zero.

His dad smiled anyways.

Looking at Ron curled up on the bed, the ridiculously brave and self-sacrificing little prat, he knew there was no house more deserving of his brother than Gryffindor. Ron would be a lion for sure.

~~~Babbitty Rabbitty and the Cackling Stump~~~

Ron was biting his nails again. Arthur tried to ignore it, but when Ron bit too hard blood began to slide down his hand and Ron… well Ron didn't seem to notice it was happening at all. Arthur passed Percy curled up with a book on the couch. His strong little bookworm had been keeping Ron company for the better part of the last week as everything was being set up, but it was clear it was affecting him as both boys had finally fallen into a silence that couldn't seem to be shaken.

' _It would be best if he slept during the day. You may not have noticed, but even the sunlight through the windows have affected him. Having lived his whole life like he has, he probably hasn't noticed, but the light's toxins will have left him fatigued and worn down. In our discussion, you told me that your son prefers to be left alone and that he doesn't seem to play too much, I think this is primarily due to this magical malady. Once the wards are finished being set up, I expect you'll see a change in your son's 'normal' behavior and the boy will display more of what he should be like rather than what this accidental magic has caused.'_

As Arthur moved closer he fought the dread that was turning in his stomach. Ron had the radio pulled close to his corner, a quidditch game giving the play by play of the Ausie Thestral's and Wimple Wands, but it was clear Ron wasn't paying it much attention.

' _I might recommend a mind healer. Keeping this sort of secret to himself can cause… unforeseen trauma down the road. It's best that they have someone impartial to speak to about this unfortunate situation.'_

He was gazing outside, his right-hand scratching at his shoulder, the one closest to the window where the sunlight had slipped through the smallest bit. The wards were letting just enough light through so that they wouldn't need candles _everywhere_ to light the house. They were investing in special magic lanterns that would allow the house to be lit without the heat of flames, but it would take time. Until then though… Arthur followed his gaze outside to where Charlie was teaching the twins flying ticks. His heart sank. Ron would never be able to play quidditch, and from the look on his little boy's face, he realized it too.

' _To be honest, Mr. Weasley, its sheer dumb luck that something worse hasn't happened before now. My guess is that the boy was unconsciously self-medicating, avoiding outside and social interactions without thinking much about it. Instincts are a powerful thing.'_

He'd seen Ron playing pretend with Ginny on the non-magical brooms. He'd seen his boy with the Cannon Quidditch Player figurines hovering about the room, instructing them on which maneuver to perform, like he was the captain of a battle.

Arthur kneeled, gently prying the destroyed nail of Ron's thumb from his mouth. Ron blinked, turning to look at him with a frown. He reached forward and pulled the curtains closed all the way.

"I was just looking," Ron said sullenly.

Arthur tried to give Ron a smile, but it felt stiff.

"Why don't we wrap this?"

Ron seemed to notice the blood for the first time, shrugging carelessly and trudged after him into the kitchen. Arthur pulled out his wand, healing the cut with a wave, but wrapped all of Ron's fingers anyways to try to stop the habit in its tracks. Ron flexed his fingers, a disgruntled look on his face before standing to leave, but Arthur grabbed his shoulder to stop him from leaving.

Ron looked up, eyes shining with curiosity.

"Why don't we play checkers?" Arthur asked.

Now Ron was eyeing him suspiciously.

"Do you really want to?"

'No.'

Arthur recoiled from his own thoughts, repulsed by his need to get away from his own child.

"Of course I do, why would you ever ask that?"

For a moment, Ron's eyes were so sharp and piercing, accusing in their assessment of him, that Arthur felt that he'd been found out. That Ron somehow knew his darker thoughts. It seemed the pressure of those thoughts might crush his little boy, but then Ron smiled shakily at him.

"I just thought… you might want to tinker with your muggle nick nacks. You haven't in a while."

"That's very thoughtful, Ron, but I'd rather spend time with you."

Another hesitant smile and a look in his eyes that said Ron didn't believe him. Arthur swore on his very soul that he would make that look go away.

' _If there is anything your family's history can provide, find it, as much as it pains me to admit this; no medical research is going to go into a one person problem, even if your family belongs to the Sacred Twenty-Eight. There simply aren't enough resources available.'_

No matter what he had to do.

* * *

The muggle house lacked charm. The yard was neglected and the lights inside were dim. Just like the owner. Still, Arthur took two steps forward and rang the doorbell, Bill just behind him.

Bill had arrived late last night. Arthur hadn't wanted to put his suspicions in a letter that could be intercepted, so had simply told Bill that there was a family emergency that involved Ron and it would be best if Bill came home for a few weeks. In the wee hours of the morning, Arthur had told Bill everything and more, laying down all that he knew about his brother and grandfather and what it could mean.

"My brother and my father were always secretive, but when Bilius was sixteen he let something slip," Arthur told Bill as they waited for the door to open. "I told him I thought having a big family would be great and Bilius became furious with me. He told me I was a fool, that the Weasley's were cursed and it would be better if we we're all dead. I just thought he was going through a depression, but now I think he was speaking the truth."

Arthur's oldest brother Phillip was thirty years older than Arthur and twenty seven years older than Bilius. No one mentioned him. He neither attended family gatherings nor invited anyone to his home. All letters were returned unopened. The man had exiled himself upon learning his child was as squib. He'd been divorced from his muggle wife and had removed himself from the wizarding world seemingly overnight. Despite this, as the oldest child upon their mother's death, all historical and legal documents for the Weasley family were delivered to Phillip.

If there was any truth to Bilius words or any information on the sun sickness that Ron had inherited, but no one in the wizarding world seem to know about, then it would be here. All he needed to do was convince Phillip to let him borrow the papers.

The door opened to reveal Phillip Weasley.

The odor hit like a heatwave, a mixture of alcohol and garbage. The face centered in the middle of that odor, skin sagging and folded over itself. Arthur suddenly wished it had been their squib cousin Dan the accountant to inherit the Weasley family history. The crisp suited, too serious young man at least had laugh lines. Phillip's face looked ready to spear Arthur's laugh lines out of existence.

"Phillip! It's been too long. Can we come in?" Arthur nudged on by, not giving the man the ability to say no. "I love what you've done with the place since I was last here. It has…" Arthur's foot tapped a bottle of whiskey. "…character."

"What do you want, Arthur," Phillip slurred, though that may have been a habit now rather than any indication of intoxication.

"Nothing too significant," Arthur assured. "Just need to have a quick gander at our books. Maybe borrow a few."

Bill slipped in quietly beside him, eyeing Phillip in disgust. Arthur grabbed his elbow, giving a gentle, but firm tug as a warning. Bill's face evened out to something more blank than condemning. Phillip grinned knowingly, though it wasn't a pleasant feature at all.

"Which one inherited it?" Phillip gestured towards Bill. "Not this one, eh? Would have noticed, then again, maybe not if he's learned some form of control."

"You know what this is?" Bill asked.

Phillip shrugged.

"I know Bilius couldn't touch people. I know the sun hurt him, crowds scared him, and mum hated him."

"Mum loved Bilius."

Phillip shrugged again.

"Whatever you say, kid. Da had it too. Gradma Sophie before him, great granduncle William before her. It's one every generation. No more and no less. I don't know nothing else though."

Arthur pressed his lips together, trying not to think about how closely that information matched the nonsense Bilius was hollering about that night.

"What about the actual illness?" Arthur pressed. "Anything in the books?"

"Nothing in the ones I can read," Phillip answered. "Except Grandma Sophie once mentioned how the gloves weren't working for her anymore. Whatever that might mean…"

"There's ones you can't read?" Bill jumped in.

"Just the one," Phillip said with a shrug. "It's been spelled so that only those who inherited the illness or curse or whatever… only they can read it. Must be pretty awful to go to such lengths."

Arthur swallowed hard, glancing at Bill, who wa looking just as sick as he felt.

"Can we see this book?" Arthur asked, though if it came down to it, he would be walking out with it whether Phillip liked it or not.

Phillip shrugged. It seemed to be his central means of communication. He gestured to be his central means of communication. He gestured absently upwards before stumbling towards the stairs.

"Da worked as a guard in Azkaban, you know," Phillip said casually. "Heard dark things make the illness worse, so it always confused me why he'd work at a place like that. Grandma Sophie was an Auror in her time. Billy… Billy struggled the most with a job. Said he disagreed with the way they handled their work. Didn't want to follow in their footsteps."

"What does that mean?" Arthur asked.

"Golden question, brother, the Merlin of all questions, really. Find the answer and you can tell me, yeah?"

* * *

The barrier protecting the inside of the house from sunlight had cast the entire Weasley home in darkness. Ron felt better, honestly he did, he hadn't realized he felt terrible _until_ he felt better. Every day felt like rain and Ron reveled in it. The entire house, while not cured of the dark atmosphere, had lifted in spirits.

Ron could be in the same room now.

More than once he'd seen the twins looking at him in bewilderment and awe. As if Ron had been dead and had popped up from the grave. He still had to keep his distance and if anyone touched him it was all downhill from there. One frightening effect though was his mum bursting into tears every time she spotted him.

"It's because she didn't realize you were sick," George told him.

"Yeah," Fred agreed, "which we all feel pretty soddy about, but mum's a mum, you know?"

George nudged him, being brief and only touching Ron where there was cloth separating contact, but Ron smiled at George for trying. His brother's smile was stretched a little thinner, but George refused to let it fall. Fred, on the other hand, wasn't bothering to hide his distress at being close to Ron or the conversation.

"Charlie said you were slowly dying, that true?" Fred whispered. Ron nodded, sipping at his pumpkin juice. It was his favorite and since returning from St. Mungo's, there seemed to be no end to the supplies in the fridge. "We're glad you're okay."

"I'm not a wet blanket, you know," Ron blurted out. The twins exchanged guilty looks, but Ron continued, because now that they knew, he could be honest. At least with this. "I _want_ to play with you. All the time. It's just… I _tried_ to explain that I made people sad, but no one listened and then it just seemed like bad things happened when I said anything so I stopped. I don't _want_ to make people said though… I want to play; like, I really, really, really want to play with you, but I don't want to cause bad stuff to happen either."

"We get it, you're not a wet blanket, we were wrong," George agreed.

"You went about it wrong though," Fred cut in. "You never told _us_ that you're magic's out of control. We wouldn't have dismissed you."

"I didn't know my magic was out of control," Ron said softly. "I just thought…"

"That you were a monster?" George said quietly.

Ron's ears turned red from embarrassment. He nodded sharply, refusing to look up.

"You're not a monster though," Fred said fiercely. "Don't ever think you are. Okay? And we'll find a way to play with you without getting all depressed and it will be amazing. No more hiding though, okay?"

Ron frowned down at the floor.

"But… just cause you know now doesn't make it go away. I can't be around you gu…"

"No, Ron, no," George snapped. "Fred's right. No hiding. It's not fair that you… you're not a monster and its time you stop treating yourself like one. You're gonna be okay and you're going to learn how to control this and… so don't lock yourself in the room or hide or anything else like that, because we'll find you and…"

"And we'll tickle you until you can't breathe," Fred finished. "Or we'll take all your clothes and hide them around the house while you're in the shower so you have to go looking for them butt naked."

"You wouldn't dare," Ron hissed.

"Oh, we would," George assured him. "And we'd put sparkles or itching powder in them to boot!"

Fred grinned savagely.

"This could actually be quite fun. Ron, you _should_ hide away and then me and George can make a game out of breaking you of this habit of yours, yeah? It would be like April Fool's every day."

"I can prank you too, you know!" Ron threatened, but he was already feeling a foreboding sinking feeling as he realized that in Percy's absence, he'd become the twins new target.

"Ohhhhhhh, Ronnie thinks he can wage war against us," Fred said in delight.

"I think we're going to have to come up with an entire new arsenal. Ron won't fall for the same stuff Percy will."

"We can build a brand of pranks focused on different types of personality. Got a bookworm to loosen up? Have a little brother you want to bring out of his shell? Have a terror of a sister?" Fred crowed dramatically. "We could build an empire."

"Wait!" Ron backtracked, realizing his rashness might have just screwed him ten ways to hell and back. "This sounds like something that would really upset mum."

"I don't know about that," George mused. "It seems to me that mum would be happy with anything that got you horsing around."

"We could probably get away with this for quite a while before it starts to ware off," Fred agreed.

"See you around, Ronniekins, Frederick and I have things to do."

"People to see."

"Plans to deviate… I mean, create."

"Busy schedule, you see, we'll be popping in to check on you though."

"So don't get too comfortable."

And then they were gone in the blink of an eye and Ron was sweating from his brow to his armpits.

"Shite."

* * *

Ron was certain that something terrible had happened.

The borrow was deadly quiet and when he snuck downstairs there was no one in sight. His mother wasn't knitting or cooking. His dad wasn't tinkering out conversing too loudly with one of his brothers. Charlie wasn't arguing with Percy. The twins weren't causing trouble or hollering up a storm. Ginny wasn't trying to be in three places at once.

No one was in the burrow at all despite eight hands pointing at home. The sun had set an hour ago and even thought the Weasley clan was known as a roaring mornings, daylight-day bright sort of family, they had all adjusted to Ron's schedule as the barriers were being set up.

An awful thought took him.

What if he'd been left here? Alone? What if they were having a family meeting on how best to get rid of him now that they knew?

"Asha!" Ron called out in a panic. Because she couldn't be affected because she was the impression of a personality. She wasn't a true person and that had always comforted Ron because it meant Ron didn't affect her. It. He relied on it. "ASHA!"

The creek of wood under his feet was the only response.

"Mum," Ron whispered, because the idea of them not hearing him because they'd left was unbearable, but the thought she might hear and simply not respond was… he'd rather die. "Dad? George? Fred?"

They _hadn't_ accepted it at all. Dad was a liar. They were all liars. Ron rubbed at his eyes, trying to breathe through the thing in his throat, choking him. They were afraid of him, of his ability, they were going to leave him alone and Ron couldn't think of anything worse than that. Not hating him or flinching from him or…

"Oh, Ronnie," his dad's voice murmured. Ron whirled around, wide eyed and heart pounding just in time to feel his dad's chest collide with him. He was scooped up as if he were four rather than eight and Ron clung to his dad's neck, burying his face there as he tried to stifle the sounds of his sniffling. "It's okay… we'd never… Ron, you know we'd never leave you behind, right?"

His dad's big hands rubbed his back and despite knowing what it would do, he hugged him tighter.

"Stiffen up that lip, alright? I've got a surprise for you," Arthur told him. Ron wiped at his eyes, avoiding his dad's eyes for fear of what he would see there or what his dad might see in him, instead he nodded. Breathing carefully until he felt in control. Then, and only then, did his dad sweep them both out the back door into the night.

A fake sun hovered over the yard. Ron stared at it in awe for a long moment, taking in the grinning faces of his family, the permanent light fixtures set out along the border of their home. A table had been set up in the corner of the yard under a giant tent, games and his chess set and colorful lights dancing around under the hood. Ron could see the now familiar signs of a sun barrier set up along the length of the tent which meant that he could be 'outside' during the day.

Shook up, Ron wasn't sure what to say.

"You guys did _all_ this?" Ron asked. _'For me?'_

"Put him down, Arthur! Let him explore!" Molly called. Ron glanced at his mum, the beginnings of excitement starting to filter through at the sight of his mother looking so pleased with the world. Fred, George, and Ginny were grinning likes thieves after a heist and Ron found himself reflecting their glee as he was lowered to the ground. From the table top, Asha sang off key, the wooden birds presence making him feel much better.

"I hope you know this means the Weasley's are gonna have to rebrand themselves," Fred said, walking up and punching Ron gently on the shoulder. "A family of the night. Skulking about in the darkness."

"The rumors that will spurn!" George declared dramatically.

"The truths that will go ignored!" Fred agreed.

"You have made us the talk of the wizarding world!" George declared.

Ron stifled a guffaw, ignoring the slow stiffening of the twin's shoulders as he came near, because they were trying. They looked to be nearly breaking over backwards just to show him that they could remain cheerful around him. Ron wouldn't ruin their act by flinching away like he had all week.

"We should start our careers as vampires by playing Fizzle Marbles where the Gnomes are sleeping," Ron said slyly.

Maybe the Grim played the king and he was Babbitty Rabbitty, but his tree, the one he hid under, was this big family he'd been lucky enough to get. All he could do was hope he didn't cause the tree to become a stump.


	3. Chapter 3 The Wizard and the Hopping Pot

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

A/N: One thing that should be noted. Ron's ability allows him to feel other people's dark emotions so this will alter Ron's ability to empathize. One of my favorite qualities about Ron is that he's not the best with dealing with emotions, others or his own. But I felt with this ability, it would literally be impossible for him to maintain that quality in this story. So Ron will be much more emotionally aware because of this.

-This story is solely focused on Ron's childhood. Hogwarts will be another story entirely.

-Expect the next update on Halloween. I will be participating in NaNoWriMo so will NOT be posted at anytime in November.

-This story has much longer chapters than Spitfire, so expect longer periods of time in between updates.

* * *

Chapter 3: The Wizard and the Hopping Pot

"In the fond hope, my son, that you will never need it."

Ron wasn't allowed to go see Percy off for his first year at Hogwarts. Everyone else got to go, but Ron would get sick because the sun was shining bright today. There were no clouds or shade anywhere and no one wanted him to end up in St. Mungo's again. So Ron was forced to say goodbye to him and Charlie at home while everyone bustled around, packing up for Hogwarts.

He'd been okay last year. Not great. He'd slept all day when they got back, but no one had really come up to see him so it was okay. The burning itch on his skin had eventually stopped. Not being allowed to go to the train station was a turn for the worst because it brought up another question.

Would they let him go to Hogwarts?

Ron knew he was magical. There was little doubt about that when his accidental magic caused so much suffering. When his magic warped the very light around him into a deadly toxin. No, Ron knew that his letter would come, though probably reluctantly, but what if his parents didn't let him go?

He could stay inside. He'd never get to go to Hogsmeade and the outer walls where the windows were would probably hurt, but he could try to stay in the inner castle as much as possible. He could still go. He could still be a Hogwarts student.

"Frowning will only 'cause you wrinkles," Asha chirped from her spot near the window.

Ron nodded, not really listening.

"I'm gonna go say bye," Ron muttered.

"I'll join you." The toy bird fluttered over awkwardly, crashing more than landing on his shoulder. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Ron told her, more than use to her dysfunctional flight patterns. "When we get to Hogwarts, I'll ask the charms Professor about how to fix that for you."

 _Hopefully._

Ron trotted down the stairs to Percy's room, but found when he was about to open the door his parents were already there, talking to Perce in quiet tones.

…doesn't matter to us."

"You don't need to worry, mum," Percy's voice assured.

"But we do," Arthur's voice was firm. "We want to make sure you pick the house you want, rather than the one you think we want you to. No matter which house the sorting hat thinks you belong to, we want you to know that we will never be more proud than to know that you are being true to yourself. Whether you're in Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. You understand?"

"Thanks, dad," Percy choked out.

Ron stepped back, turning away to leave them be when the door opened. Percy Weasley blinked in surprise to see him there, quickly wiping away tears from under his glasses, both their mum and dad standing in surprise from Percy's bed.

"I was just…" Ron sputtered. "I wanted to say bye."

The eleven-year-old swept Ron into a tight hug. Glasses askew as Percy's face found the crook of his neck. Asha squawked as she was dislodged from his shoulder, making indignant sounds as she flew to the ground.

"I'm sorry I can't be here for you, wasn't here for you when I was actually here," Percy rambled. "I know this is tough for you and that we're all still trying to figure out exactly what this is… just… you're going to be okay. We're going to make sure you're okay."

"Thanks, Perce."

Percy squeezed him once more before letting go. He looked so sad now and the guilt turned hard in Ron's stomach. Percy was about to leave for Hogwarts. He was about to be _sorted_ and about to go on an adventure. And here Ron was making him sad.

"Have fun. Try not to study so much. Make friends?" Ron told him.

"I'm sure I'll find one or two people who are the opposite of the twins, yeah," Percy joked.

Ron smiled, pulling away and making sure that there was no longer any skin contact, Percy noticed this and for some reason his face saddened more.

A scratching noise filled the air. Ron looked over to see Scabber's running along the wall. Percy moved to grab him but wasn't fast enough so Ron bent down and scooped him up. Only…

 _Fear. Terror. Desperation._

 _Sirius was furious. How did he find him? He'd hidden so well, taking care of his tracks, so how had he been found?! No, no, he wouldn't let it end like this. He wouldn't let that fucking mutt kill him. Not Sirius. He could outsmart him. He could…_

Ron dropped the rat. It shrieked as it hit the ground. Ron jerked away from it and stumbled back. Shocked. Animals didn't… that was too clear… too much. Those were associations and names. Animals didn't do that.

"Ron," Percy scolded lightly. He picked up the rat and Ron tried not to shout, to restrain himself. Because _that_ was still something he hadn't admitted to. He wasn't sure how to explain feeling people's bad emotions. Knowing where they had come from.

But… Scabbers was a rat. He was an animal. It wasn't possible for it to have human emotions. Was it? Animals ran from Ron. They could sense something bad in him so he'd only had a few experiences with animals before. He'd sensed instincts and emotions, but no real thoughts. It was more like… impressions. Herme's overly tired, wanting a treat, but not really so direct. More like… Ron could feel that Herme's wanted delight in his mouth. Scabbers had been direct with words and clarity and… horrible intent.

"Percy…" Ron trailed off looking at his big brother holding the rat. It had curled up. Its paws tucked under itself and eyes watching Ron. He took a step further from it. It's beady black eyes following him. Something was really wrong with that rat. He felt, suddenly, that he shouldn't say anything in front of it. "You're going to do great."

Scabbers had referred to this Sirius as a Mutt though. Maybe it was a magical rat? Like Kneazles or a Crup. It was just… smarter than an average animal with magical properties. Though imagining the mangy thing as anything special was a severe stretch of the imagination. Still, Ron couldn't help but be creeped out when it seemed to glance his way, beady black eyes boring into his own.

* * *

Fred's heart skipped a beat when he saw Ron outside in the blazing heat of the sun. He found himself bursting through the door, feet stumbling under him in his haste to rush across the yard. When he caught up to Ron, he could see his little brother gathering the last of the flowers before winter settled in, carefully putting them in a vase.

"Are you daft?" Fred hissed.

Ron's head shot up, his nose was smudged with dirt and there were tell-tale red blotches spreading down his face.

"Dad said to get flowers," Ron muttered.

"Dad wasn't talking to you, you numpty!"

Fred had Ron up on his feet, dragging him towards the Burrow, the sound of the vase tipping over behind them making him feel slightly guilty. Ron tugged against his rough hold, but he didn't say anything otherwise.

Did they need to go to St. Mungo's now?

Did Ron need to get those terrible smelling potions again?

Was he gonna get sick again?

"I was only outside for a few minutes," Ron muttered mulishly as Fred dragged him inside. "I'm _fine_. I'm…"

Ron sniffled.

Fred stiffened, slamming the door shut and making sure the curtains were drawn all the way. Ron, who Fred thought would tear away from him once inside, was clutching onto Fred's front and had his face buried there. Fred could feel Ron's magic digging into him already. The prank he and George had set up in dad's shed half an hour ago no longer seemed funny at all. It seemed childish and stupid and what was the point?

Fred paused.

Taking a deep breath, he thought of dad and his hankering for muggle stuff. He thought of how thrilled his dad would be to know they'd figured out how the batter-ors? worked. How by connecting the two metal strings you could get it to light up and how they'd incorporated that into the prank. How clever it was and how bonkers their dad would be over the whole thing. It wasn't stupid or childish. It would be great.

Ron was crying into his chest.

His first instinct was to push him back and tell him to get a grip, but Fred fought it. Hard. He pulled Ron to him, shushing him and doing that thing mum did where she rubbed your back. Because this was Ron and Ron didn't… Ron didn't touch people because Ron knew what his magic did. Ron didn't hug or ask for help or… he hid away.

"Come on Ronnie," Fred muttered. "What's wrong? They were just flowers. I'll go grab them in a minute."

"It's not…" Ron hiccupped. "I don't want to die here."

Startled, Fred pulled away and bent down to see his little brother's face red and tear streaked, his eyes refusing to meet his.

"Hey, hey, where did all this come from? You're not going to die. The Healers said you're going to be fine."

"What if I can't go to Hogwarts?" Ron wailed, nearly making Fred jump out of his skin. "What if they lock me up and don't let me out and… I don't want to be alone. I can be outside. I can handle it. I won't go out for long. I can control my magic. I can work on it."

Fred hugged Ron to him, looking around frantically for George, but his twin was nowhere to be seen.

"What are you talking about, Ronnie? Of course you're going to Hogwarts," Fred assured, trying to keep up with Ron's hysterical babbling. But was that true? How could Ron go to Hogwarts if the sun itself poisoned him? Bill said Gryffindor common room was in a tower with wide windows all over the place. Ron wouldn't be able to handle that.

"Is this what you've been thinking about?" Fred asked, feeling Ron shaking in his hold. He looked around the house, trying to imagine what it must be like for Ron, who couldn't leave without risk of getting seriously ill. Who, in the few minutes he'd been outside, had already started to burn a little.

Alone.

Trapped.

In darkness.

Always.

Fred shivered, a tingling of fear winding its way up his spine. Ron was getting in his head again. Even as Ron asked him for help and wanted hope and good thoughts, he was draining Fred of all of his.

"Can you get the flowers?" Ron asked, pulling away, looking up at him sadly. Fred tried to keep his hold on Ron, but his baby brother jerked out of his reach. "Mum will want them. It's pretty outside, it will cheer you up to be out there and she'll like… don't just stand so close. Go."

Ron made a shooing motion.

"Ron…"

"Go!" Ron snapped.

Then he was gone.

Fred sighed, tugging at his bangs in frustration as he went to gather the flowers. Ron was right though, being outside did cheer him up. Though they both knew it had very little to do with it being pretty and more to do with the distance between them now.

* * *

Errol the owl slept in the attic with the ghoul. A small circle shaped open window meant that the messenger bird could hunt whenever he liked, but if the family was honest, the owl never left of his own violation. He was simply too old and instead relied on the dead mice the family brought him, only making trips when an urgent message was needed to be sent.

Still, Ron took the extra precaution of closing the small window and approaching the bird when it was asleep. Percy had been away at Hogwarts for a month now and the digging sensation that he'd made the wrong choice kept creeping up on him.

What Ron didn't anticipate was Errol waking up, as if from a nightmare, shrieking away from Ron. The owl's wings reared up and only Ron's close proximity allowed him to jumped forward and touch the owl.

The owl's terror filled him. The instinct to flee, to bite, to claw at him came so suddenly and overwhelmingly, that Ron himself let go and leaped back, trying to get away from the owl with as much desperation as it was trying to get away from him. The impression though, the single somewhat clear thought that struck Ron though was the sense that he was the 'bad thing of early sleep.'

To Errol the owl, Ron was Death, Ron was the Grim.

Ron fled.

* * *

Ron hadn't spoken since Arthur got home. He exchanged glances with his wife, but he knew from the worried way she was biting her nails that she was unsure of what the problem was. He sighed, feeling a coming headache.

He hadn't been able to get the book open. The clasp had worried him and since Bill examined the family heirloom, worse news had come. It was a blood seal. Not any random sort either, but one geared towards those inflicted with the curse within the Weasley family. The thing was covered in dark ruins that had Bill muttering and scribbling about for the first few days and it had been agreed that his eldest son would take it with him for closer inspection.

The keyhole in the center of the book had a small needle in its center reminding Arthur of the muggle story he'd pilfered through about the princess and the spinning needle. Clutching the keyhole though was a shriveled hand, sharp black fingernails tapping the rough leather cover almost impatiently. The same fingers made up the binding of the book. All in all, neither Arthur or Bill were willing to let Ron near the thing until they had a clearer picture of what it might entail. Who knew if opening it might lead to the curse worsening or if it might imprint on him or possess him? Though one thing was clear… this wasn't accidental magic they were dealing with or even an unfortunate ability. Bill had informed him that this had all the signatures of an inherited curse.

It was far too specific. Only affecting one member of each generation. Randomly it seemed. For Bilius was a middle child. His father, Septimus Weasley, had been the oldest of the lot. Ron was the youngest of seven. Unless there was another factor. And if it was a curse, how did it know that Arthur and Molly would have seven children? If his suspicions were correct, Bilius had known Ron had the curse the moment he'd held him after he'd been born, so this… whatever it was, was clearly something that was inherited rather than a child being picked out later in life.

None of those affected had gone to the hospital. They'd known what it was and how to deal with it. Had they ever even bothered to try to find a cure? If this was generations back then what had happened to cause it in the first place?

And why the hell hadn't his brother or father thought to inform him of this? Ron was suffering under this curse and for what? For secrecy's sake? Did they did Arthur wouldn't be able to handle it? His little boy was hurting and feeling alone and isolated inside the Burrow for weeks on end because he couldn't go out in public for fear of affecting them with the curse or in fear of the sunlight poisoning him.

They could have prepared so much better for this if they'd known. But Bilius had tried to tell him, hadn't he? On multiple occasions, he'd come to Arthur about this, and the last time Arthur had banished him from the Burrow for two years.

"Ronald, would you like to play a word game?" Arthur enticed.

Familiar was a word game that the Mind Healers at St. Mungo's had suggested. The tiles were charmed so that when you set down a word, other words that the person associated with it would appear by each letter. It was a way to get conversation going and to talk about some problems that might otherwise not be obvious.

It had been a month since Ron had gotten home and everything had been so fresh and everyone still adjusting that he hadn't pulled it out yet. With Ron silent as the grave, pushing his food around listlessly, now was a good time to get the boy talking. This couldn't go on. Ron's behavior was growing more and more withdrawn by the day and Arthur feared that despite their best efforts, his little boy still blamed himself for the curse.

"Ron?"

Ron glanced up. Shrugged. Looked back down at his food.

"How about I make hot cocoa for everyone?" Molly suggested, jumping up and over to the kettle, already busying herself warming the milk. That was another thing. Molly had said Ron hadn't been eating much lately, despite her pushing. It wasn't as if he could see much of a difference. Ron had always been a lanky figure, no matter how much he ate, but if he continued this terrible habit…

Arthur cleared the plates away, setting up the game. The twins looked ready to settle down at the table to watch, but Arthur ushered them out with a look. They left grudgingly, giving Ron worried looks as they left. Ginny, bless her little heart, had scurried away after throwing her arms around Ron in a clumsy hug.

"Save me some cocoa?" she stage whispered.

Ron had smiled, planting a kiss on her forehead and nodding, but not speaking. Ginny seemed perfectly happy with this response, because she ran out of the kitchen to join the twins. Ron's smile fell as he turned back to him though, morosely watching as the tiles randomly split between them.

Ron knew what the game was for.

Honesty had been a key point about the game, the Healers said, and it would only hurt the person it was being used for if it started out with manipulation and lies. Not that Arthur would have lied to his son, but he hardly would have thought about explaining why they were playing.

"You know… this is a game played between Ministers," Arthur said casually as he picked out his first word. "It's meant to be a means of keeping politicians honest. Open discussion and all that."

Ron wrinkled his nose, eyeing his tiles like he did chess pieces, though the game required more a knowledge of words than strategy. Arthur knew that it might frustrate Ron at first, especially since Ron so rarely played with others.

"Bill says Fudge is a moron," Ron said bluntly, "I don't think he'd like this game."

 _That_ startled a laugh from Arthur.

He always forgot how straight forward Ron was until he was faced with it.

"For the sake of my work, I refrain from comment," Arthur said diplomatically, winking at Ron. A shy grin answered his words. Arthur checked his letters. When he saw one, he couldn't help the sly smile he felt stretching his face.

"Have you ever met Xenophilius Lovegood?"

Ron shook his head.

"He's lives not too far from here. He puts out this magazine called the Quibbler." Arthur began setting up his word. "Once in a while I'll pick it up for a chuckle. He's not known for legitimate claims or research. He once claimed that Fudge had a herd of these at his beck and call." Ron leaned forward, trying to read the long word.

"He-lio-path?"

"Apparently they are tall flaming spirits of fire that gallop across the ground and burn everything in their path."

"That's pretty wicked."

The word began to cast shadows outwards from each of the letters, reflecting thoughts that Arthur himself associated with the word.

Herd

Excitable

Lovegood

Imaginary

Obnoxious

Papers

Army

Tall-tale

Hail-fire

Ron frowned down at the word associations, pointing to one in the middle.

"I can see Heliopath's being excitable, but why obnoxious?" Ron asked.

Arthur chuckled in embarrassment.

"Well, actually, the association isn't for the word itself, but rather, the two people I associate with the word. Lovegood is a very excitable man, Fudge is…"

"Obnoxious?" Ron said with a grin.

"Yes. Your turn."

"Alright."

Arthur was not surprised by Ron's first word. Watching carefully for the reflection.

Asha

Sandy

Help

Accept

"Who is Sandy?" Arthur asked.

"She's Meredith Binns daughter. Mrs. Binns gave me Asha, remember? She was really nice, her daughter wasn't though."

"I hadn't realized it was the older one who gave you Asha," said Arthur quietly.

Ron nodded, not paying attention to Arthur's darkening mood. Arthur focused his magic again. Imagining creating a ward around himself against other magic. The dark mood lifted a bit, but not much. He found his mind wandering to the conversation he'd had with Phillip and the book Bill had taken with him. What was inside the book? What secrets were his family hiding? His eyes glazed over his tiles as he sought out his next word: Grim.

Gibberish

Ron

Ignore

Misery

Arthur felt himself freeze as he realized what he'd spelled, glancing Ron to see his boy's eyes were just was transfixed, his fingers curling into the table cloth before retracting under the table altogether

"I… its not… I associate you with Bilius's last night and he was raving such nonsense," Arthur tried to explain. Wide blue eyes watched him ramble and he realized with a grimace that there was no good way to explain this away. "It isn't a pleasant event to be associated with, but I have never and will never associate you with the bad stuff of that night. I associate it with saving you and with the mystery of everything that happened that night. Understand?"

Ron nodded, though much to Arthur's chagrin, he didn't seem to fully believe him.

"Can we play chess instead?" Ron asked in a small voice.

Arthur sighed. He dismissed the tiles, agreeing that the disaster of a 'healing' game had been quite enough for one day, for both of them. Ron eagerly gathered his chess set, a gift from his grandfather, setting the pieces up with deft familiarity.

"Ten Keys."

Arthur glanced down at the board, quirking an eyebrow at the white Castle piece. Ron hadn't seemed to notice at all until he looked up and shrugged.

"Ignore them. They always do that."

Arthur looked at Ron as he began setting up the black pieces, the chess chattering amongst themselves in excitement, glancing up at Arthur. Ron tended to play by himself a lot and they were geared up for a game against an actual opponent. Ron flipped the board around, giving himself the disadvantage of the black pieces, and Arthur had to chuckle at the confidence his eight-year-old had in himself. Percy always picked white if he could and none of his other children particularly liked the game.

They played a few games, the white castle always belching out 'ten keys' every time they started resetting the board. Ron ignored it with the ease of practice, but it did spark Arthur's curiosity a bit. When he asked the Castle what he meant though, the little chess piece gave him a puzzled look and demanded to know what he was talking about, as if it didn't remember repeating the phrase at all.

As the night wore on though, Arthur found his eyes beginning to wander closed despite his best efforts. Ron laughed at him for his pains and sent him off to bed with a cheeky salute. It made all the sleepless nights and long days worth it to hear the rare sound.

Somewhere under the accidental magic was the person his little boy was meant to be. Carefree and full of cheekiness with an ever growing humor that often took Arthur by surprise. He told Molly these things as she kissed him good night, mumbling them into her hair and watching her smile settle even in sleep.

* * *

Since Ron had been brought to St. Mungo's that first time, the Healers had insisted on keeping a monthly check up with him to ensure that his condition didn't worsen and to, if not find a cure, then at least try to study it for the sake of easing the problems. Which both she and Arthur whole heartedly appreciated and stuck to.

Today had been different though.

Molly Weasley was suspicious and weary. She was a mother of seven children and never had she been separated from her children in St. Mungos before. Not for any of the many checkups and accidents that had brought her here. She never would have been separated from her child, not on this visit most especially, if they hadn't snuck Ron away while she was filling out forms.

"Everything will be alright, Mrs. Weasley, Ronald will be brought back in a moment. It's just a simple examination," the secretary tried to placate.

"If you do not bring me to my child, I assure you, you will be out of a job by the end of the day and lucky if that if that is all that happens to you," Molly hissed. She brandished her wand in her fury, staring down the woman who was rapidly losing color in the face.

"I… the Ministry…"

Molly's heart stuttered in her chest, her fears welling up and bursting forward into reality at the secretaries slip up.

"Where is my child?!"

Her husbands whispered warning about not allowing them to question Ron too much came back to her. The list of wizards and witches with special abilities disappearing during the war coming to mind. The rumors about the Ministry's Department of Mysteries and those who had never come back out mixed with the terrible imagery of her baby boy being taken there.

"What's going on here?" A gruff voice called.

Alastor Moody limped into the room leading a group of men carrying the broken body of a prisoner between them. His fake one eye whizzed around the room scanning the perimeter while the real one was fixated on Molly herself. The secretary looked relieved, as if the Aurors would save her, but Molly's grin turned savage as she gestured Alastor over.

"Alastor, thank goodness you're here, this… _woman_ ," Molly said generously, "is refusing to let me see my child after they removed him from my presence without my knowledge."

The secretary shrunk in on herself as the whirling eye and real one both became focused on her. She held up a paper shakily to Moody who snatched it from her hold.

"The Ministry…" The secretary tried to explain again.

"…is claiming that you might not be fit parents and wants to investigate Ronald's 'ability' without either parent in the room to determine whether or not it went ignored due to neglect," Moody finished, his voice laced with disgust.

"What?!" Molly shrieked. She whirled on the secretary who looked about ready to crawl under the woodwork. "How dare you…"

"Molly," Alastor said sharply in warning. His magic eye had spun to show all white as the man eyed the team directly behind him. "You lot take him to get his damn legs fixed… enough for him to be able to stand in court, at least." The eye swiveled around to stare once more at the secretary who straightened in her chair in righteous anger.

"Listen here, these orders came directly from the Minister of Magic…"

"Who is not a tyrant able to make decision like this without serious consultation," Moody cut in. "I expect paperwork from an actual social service to be backing this sort of decision, but all I see is a politician's signature. How much experience do you think Fudge has with children, Mrs. Rample?"

"I can't ignore an order from the Minister."

"Stupid or spineless then," Moody snapped. "Maybe both."

The eye whizzed around again, circling several times before coming to a stop.

"Where is my son?" Molly demanded.

The Auror grunted in annoyance.

"Too many magical barriers in place to see far, but don't you worry, we'll find your boy."

The two strolled passed the sputtering secretary, Mrs. Rample, into the ward for uncertain maladies. Leaving behind paperwork, Minister signed documents, and a team of Aurors man-handling a prisoner with two broken legs.

Ron was dressed in medical garb. The white material stuck to his clammy fingers every time he put them in his lap and they slid across the metal table each time he set them beside him. It was awkward and cold and he didn't understand why the Healers needed to do more testing or why they insisted he stay the whole day.

The lady performing spells over him kept frowning down at the sheet of paper, muttering to herself terms Ron didn't understand. They'd let Asha come in, at least, though she was in the corner examining herself and moving her wings up and down in some strange motions. He couldn't stop himself from fidgeting.

"Ronald," the Healer looked up from her work, sitting in a chair beside him and pulling out her quill and paper, "when your magic reaches out and contorts the air around you, can you describe what that feels like?"

Ron frowned, shrugging his shoulders. He could feel frustration pooling off of her. Agitation and a need to know, not in order to fix the problem, but to quench a burning question, a small wisp of a dark memory beginning to surface. The Healer kept a definitive three feet of space between them since Ron walked in and he returned the favor by actively trying not to stir any harsh emotions up.

"What's the difference between when a person is standing near you and when there is no one?" The Healer tried again.

"Your frustrated with me," Ron said slowly, tugging at his shirt.

The Healer frowned.

"No, not at all sweetie, I'm just trying to figure this…"

"No, I mean, I _know_ your frustrated with me," Ron stopped her, "I can feel it. You don't really care about me, you just want to figure out the puzzle." He waved his hand dismissively at her paling face. "It's okay. That's what it's like when someone is close though. I feel the dark things in them. When no one is there it's just… there isn't anything. I don't feel anything."

"The dark things?" The Healer asked, trying to pull herself together. "Do you ever feel good things?"

"He is a good thing," Asha chirped up, puffing up like an indignant hen, though the Healer didn't spare the toy even a glance. Ron reached out and pet the top of Asha's head, her carved wood smooth beneath his fingers, reminding Ron that despite the good imitation, Asha wasn't really real.

Ron shook his head.

"I don't know if you're happy or excited or… whatever. I can only feel your bad emotions. So if you were in a really good mood before you came in here then I wouldn't know. I usually make people lose that pretty quickly anyways."

"That's probably the most depressing thing I've heard in a while and I usually work the night shift."

Ron snickered and shrugged, liking this honest Healer very much. The dark memory surfaced again and Ron lost his smile as he tried to fight seeing it, but the face of a young man in medical garb digging his fingernails into his face slammed into him anyways. Ron felt fear and revulsion and horror run through him, but also a sick fascination… a curiosity to know what had brought him to this point. It was a need, a desire nearly overwhelming, something that she both thrived on and reviled.

"You see a lot of bad things on the night shift then?" Ron asked softly.

"Some terrible stuff, yeah, a little too R rated for me to be telling you though," she said playfully.

"R rated?"

She waved her hand dismissively.

"Muggle term. Sorry. It's adult stuff that you don't need to worry about."

' _Like digging fingernails through the skin on your face?'_

He didn't say it out loud though. Adults liked to keep secrets and hated when someone knew them. Ron had his own secrets to keep anyways, so he supposed he understood it. The Grim, for one, had shown up again after several weeks of absence.

Longer than usual, Ron had almost hoped that the games he and dad were playing and the acknowledgement that something was wrong had been enough to make the creature go away for good, but it sat on the floor across from Ron even now. The crooked fingers of the deformed child tracing the tile in slow motions. Along the crooked jaw, the cleft lip of the creature was raised enough to reveal a portion of teeth on the left side of its face. Ron made the mistake of glancing at it, eliciting an excited wave and the creature's attention as it turned its focus on Ron.

Ron hurriedly glanced back down.

The Healer finished scribbling a few more notes on her paper, before tapping the board loudly.

"Do these bad emotions you feel cause negative affects in other ways?"

"Err…"

"Sorry. I'm really not use to talking to children," the Healer rubbed her forehead before rephrasing. "Do you have nightmares about the emotions in any way? Do they cause you to not want to be around people? Do you experience anything other than feeling the emotions?"

Ron flinched as more dark memories surfaced in the Healer at her questions. He tried to think of positive thoughts like his dad told him too. He tried to imagine a shield forming between him and the Healer, but the emotions were so _sharp._

 _A man was screaming on a bed. He was restrained. Blades were poking out of his neck. The Healers were screaming, rushed words, razor blades, swallowed, hard to remove while he's fighting back. The patient didn't want to live. They wanted to die. It was terrible. She would have to get into his history. Read his bio. Find out why he would want to… no. Help. Help HIM! Not yourself. Selfish. Selfish. Selfish. Dead. The man was dead. Staring up at nothing. She was too late because she'd been wanting to dissect his reasoning and history rather than transfiguring the razors into something harmless. Instead of helping to hold him down._

Ron moved as far away from the Healer as possible. She had a lot of bad memories. A lot of dark thoughts. It was overwhelming to feel it all. Yet Ron couldn't say she was a bad person. She seemed to get carried away easily though and it frightened him how her patterns moved. He didn't understand how someone could care about research more than people.

"I'll take that as a yes," the Healer muttered. Ron watched her, suddenly weary. Would she care more about the research? Finding out about what made Ron tick rather than making it all go away? He watched her hand move from one line to the next, writing so quickly and so small that he knew his answer. He suddenly regretted telling her about the emotions things. His mum and dad had said to be honest, but he suddenly felt like he'd messed up.

~~"C _a_ ar _ee_ fu _l,_ " the Grim croaked, flashing slanted teeth and bone. "The _y'l_ l s _li_ t you _r_ t _hr_ oa _t_ a _n_ d dr _ink_ your _blo_ od. T _hey_ 'll _ta_ ke ev _er_ y in _ch_ _an_ d s _p_ a _r_ e _no_ on _e_."

"What are your nightmares like?" The Healer asked absently, looking up at Ron in curiosity.

"They're nightmares," Ron said blankly. "I don't really want to talk about them."

The Healer was hardly deterred though, instead, encouraged.

"Do you have them often?"

"Not really."

"Stop pestering him, dearie, your bothering him to bits," the mirror bird squawked. The animated toy landed between him and the Healer, wings fully extended in a protective manner. The Healer ignored the bird.

"It says here you have a difficult time sleeping, is that because of the nightmares or do you think it's because of your ability?"

"You don't have to answer that!" Asha cried out.

"It's not really an ability," Ron muttered. "It's more like a curse."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," the Healer mumbled, "you're clearly some sort of out of control empath." She tapped her pad again, eyes darting about in giddiness. "Though specialized. I've never heard of one that only feels the dark emotions of a person and definitely not one who causes dark emotions to surface. Think of all the things you can do once you get all that under control? It would be terrifying."

"I don't want to be terrifying," Ron snapped. "I just want to not hurt people. I don't want this! I don't want anything to do with it!" The Healer looked at Ron, frowning deeply and he could feel the disappointment and annoyance coming off of her. "I want my mum."

"Not until I've finished all these questions."

"I don't want to answer any more questions."

"Well, that's too bad, you don't have a choice."

A tick went off in the back of his mind as he stared at her. Something was really wrong here. Why wouldn't they let his mum be here? Why was she so angry about the questions? A dread filled him as he glanced at the Grim who was no longer smiling but staring thoughtfully at the Healer.

"Are you here to take me away?"

Asha had gone strangely silent and he wished more than anything that her chatter hadn't stopped. Even her wings had stilled in place and Ron felt an odd sense of abandonment. He thought of Azkaban, the terrible prison where the Dementors were kept, the place that his family whispered about in fear and the twins announced was full of crazy scary people. Was the Healer here to force him into that horrible place?

"Our goal is to make sure that you are being taken care of," The Healer hedged. "To make sure that your abilities are harnessed in the best possible way they can be. There is a possibility that the right place is not with your parents."

Oh nooooo, oh no, the Grim had been right!

"What do I do?" Ron asked the Grim, desperate to find a way out of this.

"Answer the questions." The Healer said impatiently. "We still have a lot to cover. Can you tell me how old you were when you first realized you could sense a person's dark feelings?"

The Grim was contorting into something longer and more elegant. That of a frighteningly beautiful woman, pitch black eyes watching him silently.

A commotion broke out in the hallway.

"What in blazes…?" The Healer mumbled.

Asha came back to life.

"Run! Ronald! RUN!" The bird cried, then launched itself awkwardly at the Healer, knocking the woman to the ground. Ron sat, gapping in surprise, before a gesture from the Grim had his feet under him and out the door.

Out in the hallway though there was trouble far greater than inside the medical room. Ron felt the intent of death before the hand grabbed him. It was large and strong, encircling his arm and thrusting him in the air before he knew what was happening. The familiar edge of a wand poked the side of his head and Ron realized he was being held tightly against a chest.

"No one move or I'll kill the kid!"

Of course, Ron tried to move immediately, but it only earned him a harsh hit across his head. Ron stilled at the pain, staring wide eyed and confused at the strange legs spread out beside his own legs hovering in the air. Those were not human legs. He glanced tentatively behind him to see a human face and beard of a man behind him.

"Stop squirming, you little shit!"

They were hooves. What was a Centaur doing in a hospital trying to kill him? Ron glanced ahead to see Aurors who stood their ground. Wands lowered and hands held in a placating manner, the same gesture Percy was so fond of.

"Take it easy," the lead Auror spoke in a soft voice. "Why don't we make a trade? Take me as a hostage instead."

"I think I'll stick with the kid, thanks," the man drawled.

 _His brother hit the ground, smashing into it so hard and fast that bones broke. All of them. There were pieces sticking out of his skin and blood all over the place. He couldn't put him back together. He'd studied and studied and studied and he couldn't put him back together! It hurt! It hurt so bad he couldn't breathe. Nate wasn't breathing. There were pieces of his lungs on his fingers as he tried to magically knit his baby brother together, but it wasn't working. They'd hurt him so bad and for what? They'd hurt his brother over nothing. Over fucking nothing. Over some stuff, cheap junk that he would have given them if they'd asked for it, and now…_

Ron keened. Trying to pull away from the hurt and pain and despair, but it flowed into him and made everything flutter about. He wanted it to stop. Please make it stop. He didn't want to feel this horrible aching _loss_ inside of him. Fresh and open like a wound throbbing against his heart.

"Pull it out," Grim told him, leaning casually against the wall next to him.

 _His little brother was dead. He'd fucking kill them for this. He'd kill all those sick son of a bitches again and again and again. He'd make them suffer for this. His brother was smart and kind and was going places and now he was dead. He was fucking dead and it was their fault._

Rage. The ugly emotion struck him enough to choke.

"Take ahold of who he is and pull," Grim encouraged, smiling reassuringly. "It's easy."

Ron didn't pull though.

"I've got brothers too," Ron croaked out through the pain and fury assaulting him. "I've got five big brothers. They'd be pretty sad too if you killed me."

The arms around him faltered. Ron felt his magic leaking outwards. Felt the sadness and despair increase. Hopelessness consumed the man behind him. A dark pit of misery opening up that frightened Ron more than the rage had.

"I wouldn't want my big brothers to hurt other people for me," Ron added. "If I died, I'd want them to forget me."

"I…" the man wheezed. "I could never forget my baby brother. Never. He was everything. He was the only family I had."

"I'm sorry," Ron told him. "I've got a big family who'd have a hard time forgetting too."

The man folded. Ron's knees hit the tile floor hard, but he tried not to cry about it, even when the man leaned forward on his shoulders and added pressure to them. The wand against his forehead dropped and suddenly Ron found himself whipped across the floor. He hit the arms of an Auror hard enough to knock the breath from him.

There was yelling and the sound of a body hitting the floor. Disorientated, Ron now saw that the Centaur wasn't really one at all. The man didn't have the body of a horse, but rather, his two legs had been changed to resemble hairy, hooved feet. The Healer Ron had been forced to talk with was standing at her office door, an almost manic grin on her face, eyes focused entirely on Ron. A shiver went down his spine.

The Grim did not look happy at all.

She looked disappointed, almost mad, but not quite so human. She strolled forward, somehow managing to avoid every flaying limb and spell from the chaos of human bodies pinning the man to the ground. Lightly, she touched her fingers to the escaped prisoners neck, where a horribly familiar black set of webs began to spread out.

She glanced his way, her mouth quirking thoughtfully, then she was gone.

Ron didn't have a lot of time to contemplate the meaning behind such an act, for as soon as the Auror finished checking him over, his mum was hoisting him up and smothering him with hysterical love.

Everything was happening too fast.

An older Auror that Ron recognized as Moody stood bellowing at the Auror group, gesturing wildly at the prisoner on the floor. They stuttered back things about 'stealing Armin's wand' and 'the fastest transfiguration they'd seen in years.' Moody didn't seem to care much for that though.

Ron's eyes met the prisoner, the man looked resigned, his hands tied behind his back and chin touching the floor. Catching sight of Ron he tilted his head up a bit, mouthing an apology. Ron wasn't sure how to react or what to say, so he just nodded, tucking his head against his mum who was stroking his back too fast and too hard.

Something clicked in the back of his mind. Ron sat up, looking around frantically. He tugged at his mum's sleeve, trying to pull her attention away from checking over him. She sniffled, tilting his chin up.

"What is it, Ronnie?"

"Where's Asha?"

* * *

Healer Joy had broken her wing off. There was a crack across her chest. Ron picked up the pieces gingerly despite knowing that the animated toy couldn't feel pain. Asha let out a little trill in response.

"Don't worry, dearie, I can still sing, so it doesn't matter that I'm not looking my best."

Ron hugged her close, knowing only too well that the mirror birds looks did matter to her. Across the room Healer Joy was in a heated debate with several other Healers, his mum, and the crazy eyed Moody. His dad had been fire called, scaring Ron to death when his father's voice had shouted a threat at the hospital staff. His dad never shouted. Asha twitched in her arms.

"Thank you for saving me," Ron told her.

"Such an uncharming woman," the bird sniffed. Her head ticked to the side as she tried to look at him before giving up and settling on his lap.

"She's not completely horrible. She just loses sight of what's important," Ron muttered.

"If she comes near you again I'll peck her eyeballs out."

"I think mum will get to her first," Ron muttered, eyeing the way his short little mother had somehow managed to shove her face into the measurable taller Joy's. He shrunk in on himself when he noticed Moody's fake eye bent at an odd angle to stare at him. He waved meekly. The man turned in response, his body aligning with the eye rather than the other way around and Ron felt every hair on his body raising as the frightening Auror marched over to him.

"Hello Ron, mind if I sit down?"

He sat before Ron could answer.

"Seems to me you have trouble that follows you like a bad smell."

"Er… sorry?"

"I remember what happened when you were five, told your father then that he needed to get you checked out to see if you were an empath, knew then that there was something up with you."

"When I was five?" Ron knew that he knew Moody from somewhere but he didn't… Oh. Ooooh. The Dementors. When he was really little and he'd figured out that he was a dementor. Moody had been one of the scary men screaming about the house. "You asked me about what I felt."

"And you did a very good job evading me," Moody chuckled. "Like pulling teeth to get you to admit to anything."

Ron fiddled with Asha's wing, trying to reattach it, but sighing in frustration when it wouldn't come together.

"I'm not sorry about that," Ron muttered.

The grin Moody shot him was savage.

"I wasn't sure before, knew you'd be trouble later on in life, but now I think you'll be the good kind of trouble. The kind that follows your gut rather than what the rules say, eh?"

Moody patted him on the knee, both eyes crinkling and standing up to join the adults again.

"Kid," Ron looked up. "Listen, not all adults are trustworthy, I think you know that, but I want you to keep this ability of yours to yourself. Don't tell the Healers anything. They're reporting back to the wrong sort and I'd hate to see you hurt." Moody looked him in the eye. "Your parents don't think your old enough to know that, but I think maybe you've been a little too old for a lot of things these last few years and not knowing the truth has hurt you more than any of us know. Keep your head down and don't trust nobody. Got it?"

Ron nodded.

"Thank you."

"Don't worry, I'll watch after him," Asha chirped.

Moody eyed the broken toy skeptically, but ruffled Ron's hair without further comment.

"I'll be keeping an eye on you anyways," Moody muttered.

For once the intimidating Auror didn't frighten Ron at all. Even the eye was reassuring as it swiveled around the room.

* * *

"There's a Christmas party at the Ministry being held for everyone and their families," Arthur told his children. Well, he told the twins and Ginny, Ron had taken to eating out in the living room and exchanging conversations _from_ the living room.

"When you say everyone…" Fred started, a note of suspicion in his voice.

"Do you mean _everyone_ or do you mean the pureblood list of preapproved families," George finished.

"And if so then how did _we_ make it on that list?" Fred finished.

"Aren't we purebloods?" Ginny asked, blinking at her older brothers.

"We are," Arthur agreed, "but blood doesn't matter." Arthur paused at the look his twin boys were giving him. "To us. The list is… restrictive and normally I would have declined, but my boss asked to meet the family."

"Is your boss nice?" Ginny asked.

"Not really," answered Molly, stepping into the kitchen, "but he's nice to your father. He's not much for politics and gets riled up very easily. There's many policies the Ministry upholds that he sees as unjust and it makes for a… tense work environment."

"Why is he nice to you then, dad?" Ron called, sticking his head in the door.

"Oh, just come sit down, Ronald. Really, this is a bit much," Molly puffed out.

Ron ignored her, looking to his dad.

"We agreed on a lot of those policies. The Ministry has been governing for a long time, nearly seven hundred years, and despite that long line of laws, there has rarely been a change to reflect the culture or the needs of the people. Many of them are unjust."

"Like what?" George asked.

Arthur shared a look with Molly, who gave a small nod.

"They tend to look down upon half-bloods and muggleborns, as you know," Arthur said carefully. "But it extends passed that. Policies that negatively affect a variety of people and others like werewolves, goblins, house elves, and elves. Well, the elves all headed over to America after the massacre in 1621, but when they had been here…"

At the blank look on his children's faces, he reigned in his passion for the subject. Even Fred and George were still only ten. They'd have plenty of time with Binns to learn about all that.

"The important thing is…"

"What about Dementors?" Ron asked.

Arthur's head whipped around to Ron by the doorway. Arthur's mouth was still open, mid-sentence, and he found himself a loss for words.

"Dementors?" Fred asked, bewildered. "Those scary creatures that were around our house that time?"

Ron frowned, crossing his arms and glaring.

"What does the Ministry do with Dementors?" Ron demanded, more firm. Arthur was taken about. Ron hadn't shown this much fire for something in… well, ever. Ron shied away from people.

Arthur tried for a smile, remembering the terrifying incident a few years ago.

"Dementors are used by the Ministry to guard Azkaban," he told them solemnly. "Their ability to suck ones soul from a person's body is used for executions. Their magic causes people to relive their worst memories over and over again."

"So the Dementors are locked up with the prisoners then?" Ron asked, looking worried. "What did they do to get there?"

"What did they do?" Fred mimicked, giving Ron an incredulous look. "What did they do? They suck out people's soul!"

"They make people sad though… with their magic?" Ron asked, arms crossed and then it clicked for Arthur.

He felt sick to his stomach.

"No. No, no, no, no, baby, no," Molly cried. In an instant she was across the kitchen and picking Ron up as if he were four rather than a very tall eight-year-old. "No, baby, you're nothing like a Dementor and the Ministry won't ever put you in there. You hear me, Ronald? Never."

"You shouldn't hold me," Ron mumbled, but he'd grabbed on around her neck.

"I'll hold you whenever I please," Molly snapped. "I'll hold you however long I want and I'll not have you in the living room having dinner away from your family for a moment longer!"

With that, Ron was swept over to the table and set down less gently than was strictly necessary, Molly looking about ready to wrestle the dragons Charlie wrote home about. Before any of them had time to blink, the food in the living room had been summoned. Ron looked startled as the plate settled.

"I don't think…"

"We want you here. Accidental magic or not. Ability or not. Your place is here," Arthur told him, trying not to think of the mistake they'd made those couple years ago. Ron's description, now that he thought about it, sounded an awful lot like his ability. Which meant… Arthur swallowed, trying not to think about it. He would have to sit Ron down later tonight, explain things to him.

A knock sounded at the door.

Arthur glanced at the clock, frowning. It was late evening. Who would be…? The door displayed a Ministry symbol. Arthur's frown deepened.

"Head on up to bed, alright?" Arthur squeezed Ron's hand, gesturing towards the stairs, he handed Ron his plate then turned to his other children, cocking his head in Ron's direction who was already fleeing. "Why don't all of you turn in early. We have to be in Diagone Alley early tomorrow to pick up Bill."

The twins groaned, but trudged on up, muttering about how _their_ bed times should be later than the babies. Arthur chuckled, watching as his wife tugged Ginny behind her, his baby girl's big brown eyes watching him as he made for the door. Arthur sighed, feeling a draw at his normally vast patience beginning to pull tight, if it was Rogers again about that damn case he would…

But it wasn't Rogers.

It was the Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic. For a moment, Arthur considered slamming the door in the woman's face, he considered telling her that she was unwelcome here and that there was more than appropriate time at work for _work things_ , but the Junior Assistant had a reputation for destroying careers and her hand in just about every influential pocket the Ministry had to offer.

"Umbridge," Arthur said in a clipped voice. "Come in."

"Mr. Weasley," said Umbridge in a sugary voice. "Good Evening, I hope I haven't caught you at a… bad time?"

She didn't sound remotely sorry at all. Arthur gestured for her to come in, trying to reign in his irritation. "Not at all," he muttered. _'Couldn't have picked worse if she'd come while the house was on fire.'_ "Can I ask what's brought you here rather than my office?"

"Oh, this is a personal matter for your family, I thought it best for all if this was to be handled discreetly"

"Oh?" Arthur asked, feeling the pit of his stomach tighten. "How so?"

"Is Ronald here?" Umbridge asked.

Arthur stopped, the pit in his stomach exploding outwards until he was forced to check the floor for his insides, but they had somehow all managed to remain inside of him. Strangling him.

"Ronald? Yes, he's upstairs, why?" Molly's voice demanded as they walked into the living room, his wife glanced at Arthur before both their attentions were brought back to the round pick thing wearing a Ministry badge.

"Mr. Weasley, your home is so… delightful. It's amazing the sheer amount you've been able to do with so very little."

His wife stiffened. Arthur rushed over and threw his arm around her shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly before turning back to Umbridge.

"As both our families are part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Molly and I inherited many powerful items collected over hundreds of years," Arthur said slowly, holding his anger back. "Our power may not be in a financial pocket book, but we have many contacts and much influence."

The Ministry would never lay a hand on Ron.

Umbridge's face contorted into something dark before evening out into a smile large enough to ingest his wife's three-week-old bread in a single jaw clenching bite. Then she gestured for them to take a seat, as if this were her home and everything in it belonged to her and her alone. She herself sat directly in the middle of one of their three seat couches. Both Weasley's remained standing, though they did move more into the living room. Umbridge pulled out a file.

"Now, if you are comfortable, let us begin," Umbridge said sweetly.

"Begin what?" Arthur demanded.

"It has come to the Minister's attention that an error in our systems has occurred," Umbridge started. She laid out a picture of Ron on the table, looking up at them expectantly, but when they didn't ask, she cleared her throat and continued. "Every instance of Accidental Magic or Underage Magic within Britain is recorded by magic and set down for review. Should something of significant status occur or should any danger befall the child, the magic will alert our clergy. However, for Ronald, there was no such occurrence at all."

Molly squeezed his arm hard enough to bruise, but he did not allow any show of that on his face. Instead, he kept it carefully blank.

"This sounds like a problem with paperwork," Arthur said carefully. "It seems to me that you are at the wrong place."

Umbridge beamed as if they'd won some grand prize.

"Oh no, no, no. I am at the right place. You see, I have been through Ronald's records personally…" Umbridge said silkily, making the words sound oddly dirty. "Our records work like this… the accidental magic is written down the moment it starts and the moment it ends. The moment Ronald's accidental magic started was the day he was born. There is no end date."

Arthur's mind went blank as he watched the triumph spread like sickness across the Ministry members face.

"You think…" Molly gasped.

"Don't Molly," Arthur said urgently, but there was no deterring his wife now.

"You come into _my_ home," Molly hissed. "And you accuse _my_ son of being an Obscurial?"

Umbridge flipped to a page in her files and Arthur felt his heart lurch as he recognized his little boy's medical records from St. Mungo's.

"According to these records, red flagged for three separate concerning notes by medical staff, Ronald's magic is constantly contorting light and emotions around him into toxin, is this incorrect, Mrs. Weasley?"

"It is an unfortunate condition, yes, but we are handling it," Arthur growled, his arms shaking from holding Molly in place, keeping her from saying anything detrimental to their cause.

"One of the concerning notes present here is that young Ronald never said anything. He was aware of the condition, but frightened by it and feared rejection if it was found out. This sounds very much like 'trauma associated with the use of magic.' One of only two ways Obscurial's are created. Of course, no one is blaming either of you for this unfortunate business, but it does leave the Ministry with a frightening amount of concern both for your family and what may happen in the future."

"Ronald," Arthur said stiffly, "is learning control fairly fast. He is reaching out and we are helping him. One fantastic thing about having large families, Madam Umbridge, is that there is no small amount of support and help available."

"A family of many children who may be in danger by your youngest son," Umbridge pointed out quietly though her voice seemed to ping off every corner in happiness. "The Ministry, of course, is more than willing to offer its assistance in this case. There are several people high up in the Ministry who would adore being able to work with your son for better control."

"Like the Empath ten years ago who disappeared?" Molly snapped.

"Those are terrible rumors," Umbridge simpered. "Lisa Ruthaberg completed her training and moved to France. Ronald would be given a room at the Ministry where you could visit him whenever you liked."

"I don't think so," Arthur growled. "Our son will be staying here."

Far from deterred, Umbridge looked pleased.

"The Ministry is also concerned for how long this has been ongoing without the notice of anyone. There is suspicion of… neglect," Umbridge noted, pulling out another paper. "If you choose _not_ to allow the Ministry to aide you in this matter, there will be an investigation into your family. I'm sure everyone is interested in the day to day matters of one of Britain's Sacred Twenty-Eight."

Arthur had his wand in his hands, seconds away from hexing the woman out of his house, when he caught sight of Charlie's Prefect's letter, magically adhered next to Bill's by a set of pictures. At the bottom of the letter was a signed name.

"That won't be necessary," Arthur found himself saying.

Umbridge's eyes crinkled in delight.

"The Ministry doesn't need to step in," Arthur continued, "because Albus Dumbledore is already aiding Ronald in his control of magic."

Instantly Umbridge's face lost all its happiness.

"I'm sorry?" Umbridge spoke, the first cusps of disdain entering her voice. "Albus Dumbledore has no power…"

"I thought we were talking about a child's welfare?" Arthur cut in. "Who better than the Headmaster of the leading school in all of Britain to teach my son about magic?"

"Teaching a minor is against the regulation of magical law," Umbridge reminded, her voice barely holding on to its overly sweet tone. "Should Dumbledore be teaching a child before they made it of age…"

"Albus Dumbledore is assuring the safety of a child and that child's family," Arthur gestured to their home. "As you indicated the 'danger' earlier, surely there should be no problem with this? If the Ministry considers it a violation of the law then both Dumbledore and I will be there Monday morning to ensure all correct paperwork is filled out. We wouldn't want to cause any problems for anyone, after all."

"And if I were to contact the Headmaster after leaving here, he would know all of this, would he?" Umbridge said acidly. "He would be able to tell me about young Ronald and his 'training'?"

"Absolutely," Arthur lied. "He's quite fond of the boy, actually. Thinks he's got quite a bit of promise."

"Then I suppose we're done here." Umbridge stood abruptly, gathering her papers and marching to the door before turning. "I warn you both, this isn't over. Next time you see me, it will be to take your son from this home to a place where he will be much better taken care of and taught by professionals. He will become an important piece to the Ministry."

When the door slammed closed, Molly threw Arthur a panicked look, about ready to launch herself up the stairs to their youngest son.

"We need to contact Dumbledore," Arthur announced before Molly could go anywhere. "All those favors Bilius and Fabien and Gideon garnered while in the Order… we're calling on them. Now."


	4. Chapter 4: The Fountain of Fair Fortune

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

* * *

Chapter 4: The Fountain of Fair Fortune

"The first, by name Asha, was sick with a malady no Healer could cure. She hoped the Fountain would banish her symptoms and grant her a long and happy life."

The note had sat, attached to Dumbledore's calendar for two months now, curiosity warring with the large amount of work he was already undertaking. Fudge's foolish ways were beginning to grind on his vast patience. Calling him in on important cases only to ignore his advice once he got there. A devastating failed negotiation with the goblins that would set them back years in their relationship with them. The continued werewolf act that was meant to 'protect' the citizens all while forgetting that werewolves themselves were citizens. An overseas venture that was supposed to be an invitation to the Vampires to talk, a discussion in trade for rare herbs that grew in their territory, that was a trap set up by the Aurors. Blast them. Blast them all.

He'd left the Minister on brittle terms, informing the man that if he should ever use Albus for his own gain again, especially with the intentions of harming creatures, then not even his of so precious political position would protect the man from him. He'd left the weedy man trembling and furious.

Someday the tension in their relationship would come to a head and Albus would take pleasure in tearing the man apart, but he had a school to run and children to think about. He trusted Minerva as his deputy and under normal circumstances there would be no doubt that the woman would take his place should something happen, but he suspected the Ministry would try to step in. Since the end of the war, unsavory men and woman had taken power in the administration, they're eyes lingering on Hogwarts. Soon they would start to make their moves and while Minerva was a brilliant teacher, she was not prone to political messes as he tended to be, as much as he wished he was not.

The summer was over though, his meddling in political nonsense complete for a season, and tasks for the school once more in need of attending. Despite being well into September, he'd been forced to put up with the Ministry's demands to finish up his tasks and felt drained even though it was only Fall. Classes were nearly two months into the semester and both students and teachers were settled in to the routine of the year.

Over the last twenty years he'd been replacing teachers with those loyal to him. Getting rid of Slughorn had been especially difficult because there were few Potion Masters out there capable of teaching children. Severus was… not the best person to be in a position to teach children. But he had two key traits that had persuaded him; Severus hated the children, but he would give his life to protect any of them. The second was that Severus was harsh, even unreasonable, but he was a damn good teacher. None of those children would leave his lessons without knowing a thing or two about potion making.

His remaining staff to be removed was Silvanus Kettleburn and the latest DADA teacher, though he suspected the administration woman wouldn't last more than a year, as no other teacher had since he'd turned down Tom Riddle for the position. Kettleburn was an older man though, set in his ways, and far too of a purist for Albus's liking. The problem though was that there were few magical creature caretakers to begin with. The profession held in much higher regards on the mainland then England. The truth of the matter was that the vast hunting down in the 17th and 18th centuries had caused a great many of the natural bred creatures of the area to flee.

The forest of death, a name Dumbledore despised, but hadn't been able to arrange for a name change with the Ministry yet, was a practical sanctuary for magical creatures. His ban on students entering it was due more for the protection of the creatures than for the students as should an incident occur between student and creature then the creatures would be the ones punished. The protection of Hogwarts over them would be stripped.

Perhaps the worst part of his summer political ventures was just how much work needed to be done when he got back. Things that should have been done before the semester even started. Minerva and Sprout, at least, enjoyed going to the muggleborn families and explaining the situation to the new witches and wizards and their parents. It was a task he'd enjoyed immensely, once upon a time, but with so much to do…

Dumbledore attached more notes to his board. The reminders layering on top of one another in their numbers. So much to do and so little time in which to do them. The quidditch season would be starting and he had yet to replace one of the damaged balls. He'd have to call Hagrid up to go into town for a replacement.

Minerva needed new supplies for their seventh years as well. Their last graduating class had not been the most promising in the field, to put it lightly, and the supplies had been pushed passed its limits to the point that they were unusable. Unfortunately they were hard to find, being NEWT students meant they'd earned them, but darn it all if it wasn't one of the more annoying tasks.

There were times when he felt more schools should be built for magical education. One school in each country for every magical person's child was taxing and limited the choices of the magical community. What if Dumbledore had been a purist? Then every child in the wizarding world of England would be tainted with that biased. What if Dumbledore had chosen a staff who were loyal to the Ministry and cared more for rules than the learning experience? There would be generations of adults raised on the fear exploring the world, who would be raised to never question authority, to stay inside a small box and stick to it.

As it were, Dumbledore tried to keep a policy of open mindedness and the idea that education was not a means to get a job, but a way to educate oneself to make wise decisions and to explore life to the fullest. Perhaps there were better ways out there, but it was the one that he felt gave the children the best chance to fulfill their lives to the fullest.

So much riding on one school. There were times when he thought back to Grindelwald's ideals, as they weren't all terrible, radical and unpolished, extreme and far reaching, but not absolutely wrong. Specifically the ideal that each magical child possessed within them a wall of potential, no matter what their upbringing or family linage.

The idea that there were special children out there, children who had the potential of the four founders of Hogwarts. Who could move mountains, but were too busy being buried under them.

Its why he became a teacher in the first place. To give children the best chance they could have. Yes. But to also make sure those mountain moving children were unearthed from their bounds.

Dumbledore gathered the highest priority notes and tucked them in his pocket. He would come back for the rest at a later date.

Dumbledore reflexively twitched as he listened to Fudge's long winded speech. Christmas break had come much quicker than he ever imagined and a summons by the Minister had come much soon than liked.

It was fortunate, he found, that so many individuals thought him one of the most powerful wizards on the planet. It made things… easier. Garnering funds for his school, moving the right people into the right positions, guiding those great souls who needed advice and the not so great ones. He was able to move about and influence the world as he pleased without, or at least, without too much trouble. He wouldn't necessarily say he detested hard work. But the fact of the matter was this; he was old.

It was a fact he's hidden gracefully well underneath his stylish robes and his cheery show of hand. The ability to seem much more powerful than he was. Stronger than he was. But deep down, he was ailing. A body ridden with creaks and the random pop. Joints not so willing to move, let alone swiftly, as many situations called upon him to do. He was an old man that the world still expected to move and act as if he were twenty.

So it was most unfortunate too, at times. As every witch and wizard in the country vied for his attention. And while he would prefer to spend his time with more fascinating and odd magical folk, he instead ended up attending a vast number of court rulings, advisory boards, and the high and mighty (and overly bloated, arrogant) individuals of influence.

It was such a matter that brought him here today. Minister of Magic Conrnelius Fudge had been having trouble keeping the Minitaurs at bay and had insisted on a consultation to see how Dumbledore handled _his_ Centaurs. He had explained to Fudge on three separate occasions that one did not handle another race, one negotiated and spoke with another race, the man though, had simply stared blankly at him, features owlish as he tilted his head in confusion.

"I've already tried to reason with them, Albus. They pretend they cannot speak and pelted… things at me," Fudge intoned, as if Dumbledore was rather thick minded, but too influential to state out loud, and that the Minitaurs were too uncivilized to speak at all.

"Demanding they retreat into the forest to make room for a new shopping district for the wizarding community," Dumbledore spoke slowly, "is not, in fact, means for negotiation."

"They have seven hundred miles worth of land. They can stand to lose fifteen."

"And three hundred years ago, they had thousands."

"What does that have to do with anything now?"

Dumbledore peered at the man over his half-moon spectacles, gauging to see if he was joking. The haughty stance, the unhappy set to the man's jaw, the irritation and incomprehension pointing otherwise. Dumbledore sighed. Honestly, he did not understand people. So few had good sense.

At precisely that moment in time Molly Weasley passed them by. She seemed in a hurry, irritation lining her face as she hefted a rather large bag after her. Her twin boys and youngest son on her heels. She paused in her stride, stopping to glance at him.

Delight filled his old heart.

"Mrs. Weasley," Dumbledore greeted giving her a warm smile. Just the woman he wanted to see. Or rather, that made for a very convenient means to excuse oneself from someone he did not want to see. "I must apologize, I'd completely forgotten I was meant to meet you at the Leaky Caldron this morning. Does Charles still need to have his classes adjusted for the spring semester?"

She blinked at him before glancing at Fudge, her irritation warping into a glare.

"Yes, yes you were supposed to meet me, Dumbledore. I waited nearly half an hour for you to arrive. Quite rude, I must say, for you not to show up."

Dumbledore turned apologetic.

"I am terribly sorry, Mrs. Weasley, Cornelius, I must rectify this immediately, another time?"

Without waiting for an answer, he swept his robe up and followed Molly as they dashed away, leaving a gaping Minister in their wake. They slowed down, standing before Florish and Botts, where Dumbledore tipped his hat most deeply at Molly and her three boys.

"Mum," young Ronald called, perplexed, "I thought we were just getting stuff for Charlie, and Perce."

"We are," George told his little brother, "Mum lied."

"Georgie," Molly warned.

"You did?" Ronald asked, eyes wide, "but you said…"

"Never you mind, Ronnie, this was special adult circumstances. You'll understand when you're older."

Dumbledore chuckled at the flustered women, before stooping to kneel in front of young Ronald. Ron's head tilted back to look him in the eyes. Bright blue orbs big as they took in his tall frame.

"Your mother saved me from a dreadful encounter with an unpleasant man," Dumbledore explained. "It's like stranger danger, only sometimes it's the people we know who are the danger."

Ronald nodded solemnly in understanding.

Children were far more perceptive than adults gave them credit for. Sometimes more so, unclouded as they were from the biased opinions of the world.

Dumbledore stood, with every intentions of wishing them well, but stopped at the dark circles under Molly's eyes. The woman had seemed to age a great deal more _after_ the end of the war than during it, if one were to ask him, and during had been quite the trauma on everyone's age.

"I know that you must be quite busy," Dumbledore murmured. "But would you do me the honor of accompanying me to tea?" He gestured to the Yandell tea shop down the way. "A few minutes to catch up and relax?"

"Certainly," Molly acquiesced. "We're not in a hurry at all, and tea sounds lovely, tell me, Headmaster, have you received any word from Alastor?"

Dumbledore blinked in surprise.

"I'm afraid that if I have, I've not been able to see it, the Ministry has been tying up my hands with great gusto of late."

"That is probably our fault then, come along, I'll explain everything once we've gotten tea and the little ones settled."

Concerned now, Dumbledore followed swiftly, the twins watching him in curiosity, young Ronald with trepidation. He supposed that they might be surprised their mother had the ability to order one such as himself around, not knowing the relationship he shared with all family members of the Order. He made sure to keep a close eye on them as they were of his 'concern.'

During the second war Gideon and Fabion had gone on a mission for the Order. It had not been a mission he himself sanctioned, but rather, one of the men he trusted with strategy. Never the less, Dumbledore tried to make sure the well-being of those families of the Order were taken care of. He'd recently secured a job for Remus Lupin, though sadly, could not expect it to last too long. Remus, as much as Dumbledore respected the man, was so guilt ridden about his affliction he gave himself away time and time again. It was becoming more and more difficult to aid the werewolf.

Well aware of his many faults, Dumbledore tried to make up for his various mistakes and fumbles, through aiding those he intentionally and unintentionally put in harm's way. What help he did, he'd found through the years, ranged from helpful to life saving to life damning. James and Lily's son, for instance, was a choice he languished over many a nights. The Dursley's were… less than ideal. While he'd considered a great many options, it was the only one where young Harry remained hidden from the wizarding world so… completely. And at the end of the day that seemed the wisest choice.

Placing Harry in any home in the wizarding world, void of his mother's protection, would not only put Harry himself at risk, but also whatever family took him in. Dumbledore forcefully pulled himself from his dark thoughts, shaking his head hard, wondering what had dragged him into such dark thoughts so quickly. This was not the time nor the place for questioning his decisions. The cold feeling down his spine dissipated when he put up his occlumency shields, organizing his mind in the same moment.

Sitting down at the tea shop, Dumbledore watched as Molly fussed with Frederick's shirt, before instructing Ronald to pull his sleeves up. The boy reluctantly did so. Blue eyes peered up at him and Dumbledore found himself startled by their knowing nature. There was something… off about this young child. Not in the unpleasant foreboding he'd felt with young Riddle or the weariness and hope he felt with young Potter… something strangely in between.

"Pandora is watching Ginny, bless her heart," Molly rambled, straightening her shopping bags. "An odd woman, but so good hearted she probably cries sugar."

Dumbledore chuckled lightly.

"She has a daughter Ginevra's age, does she not?" Dumbledore asked. He made a point of reading the quibbler when he had the time. Xenophilius truly came up with the most unusual theories. He did not want to miss it if the man hit on something important. It always paid off to keep tabs on those who were otherwise dismissed. Slughorn could learn a lesson or two from that.

"Luna is very bright," Molly nodded, "She'll make Ravenclaw for sure. I honestly thought Percy might be a Ravenclaw. I must admit I was relieved he wasn't. My boy already ostracizes himself enough without being in a separate house."

"Yes, the sorting hat is well aware of such things when he chooses a house for a student, sometimes the best place for the mind isn't necessarily the best place for the heart," Dumbledore agreed. Wasn't there something Minerva had mentioned to him about the Weasley's? Dumbledore had been planning on seeing them before this… but for what? Age did weary the mind most unpleasantly.

One of the children, wasn't it?

He glanced at the twins, they would be entering Hogwarts next year, wouldn't they? Dumbledore glanced at Ronald. That strange aura around him. Ronald had taken the seat as far from the window as possible.

"…expect he'll be a prefect like Bill and Charlie. I'm so proud of all of my boys," Molly was saying.

"As you should be. There is much to be proud of," Dumbledore nodded. "Is this young man your youngest son?"

Ronald glanced up at him, hands in his lap and the tea untouched. He looked as if this was the last place on earth he wanted to be and as if Dumbledore was the last person he wanted to talk to. It was then that he noticed the twins chairs were positioned as far from Ronald's as the they could get. Molly herself seemed to be struggling with some sort magnetic problem. Moving a little closer, then further away, and closer again. At the mention of his name, she peered down at Ronald, it looked for a moment, as if she wanted to reach out to him, but refrained.

"Yes, he's my youngest boy," Molly said fondly. She glanced around the shop. "This isn't the best place for such discussions. Fudge has eyes on my boy, Dumbledore, Ron has an ability he would like to get his hands on. We were hoping you would consider helping him?"

Though worded as a request, there was a steel in Molly Weasley's eyes and he doubted very much that should he say no they would simply be on their way. Not that he ever would. As old as he was, his curiosity was still as young as ever, and those words lit aflame his desire to know much the same as a child.

"Well then," Dumbledore announced, "how about I come to the Burrow tonight then? Dropping by unannounced has never been the best of ideas with your family, if I remember correctly, your wards are an impressive feat by any standards. The best I've seen, in fact, outside of my own."

Molly blushed in pride.

"Yes, they are."

They finished their tea and departed. He left feeling oddly perplexed. As an empath there was hardly a magic he failed to identify. He'd watched as one Prewitt child after another came through Hogwarts and had always been impressed by the resilient magic the family possessed. Fabien and Gideon both showed an especially rambunctious magic that was hard to come by as Molly's twins did when they showed up.

Ronald completely lacked any Prewitt light though.

He was as dark and imposing a magical signature as late Bilius had been.

Curious. So very curious.

* * *

He had made a grievous error in judgement. Upon entering the home of the Weasley's and being informed of the situation, it was clear a devastating series of events had led to this point. He regretted allowing the Ministry to keep him busy and felt it was a grave error on his part to not have investigated Bilius Weasley's death further than the cursory glance he'd taken.

He had assumed Bilius had suffered far more damage from the war than he'd originally thought and while saddened that he hadn't taken notice soon enough to help, had acknowledged that there was little he could do after the fact. Another hard lesson.

Only this was certainly no war created problem.

Lowering himself down to the floor, Dumbledore watched as Ronald fiddled with his chess pieces, the boy glancing at Dumbledore wearily as they pulled themselves together for another game. How could such a small child carry within him such horrifying power?

"I know they told you," Ronald mumbled.

"Indeed, they did," Dumbledore admitted freely. "They trust me to help you."

"How are you going to do that?"

"I'm not entirely sure… yet, but like all complicated problems, it probably has a very simple solution."

"I really doubt that," Ron muttered, setting his King upright on the board, the little piece saluted him with his crown before bellowing out 'It's in the spine.'

"Dear me," Dumbledore chuckled, reaching forward to help fix the board, "what was that about, I wonder?"

Ron shrugged.

"They do it all the time."

"Do you know what it means?" Dumbledore asked curiously, spying the King eyeing him with distrust, trying to indicate to the boy not to say anything, but Ronald was distracted.

"That its Monday."

Dumbledore turned the words over in his head, but they made little sense and related in no way that he could see to the first and most dreaded day of the week. In fact, the only person he'd ever known to enjoy Mondays was Alastor Moody and that in and of itself explained the entire thing.

"How do you know that its Monday?"

"Because it's the King. He always starts and ends the week."

"How so?"

Ronald gestured towards the board in an 'isn't it obvious?' sort of way.

"The board is a riddle," Ronald told him, giving him a look. Dumbledore chuckled as he realized he was being scrutinized by an eight-year-old for a suspected lack of intelligence. "It wants me to open the box."

"Box?"

Ronald tapped the chess board itself, absentmindedly.

"It wants me to put the chess pieces in a certain order. That's why theirs clues, but there are thousands of ways to set the board up." Ronald tapped the head of the Castle chess pieces. "There's ten keys," Ronald mumbled.

"How do you know it's a puzzle?" Dumbledore asked, intrigued.

Ronald looked up at him blankly as if he didn't understand how Dumbledore could not see what he saw.

"What else would it be?"

"Fair enough," Dumbledore decided to drop the subject, despite his keen interest. "Shall we discuss your light problem then?"

Ronald glanced up at him, squirming under his gaze before putting the final chess piece down. The pieces booed Dumbledore, eliciting a small smile from the tiny Weasley.

"Mum and dad told you about it already, right?" Ronald mumbled.

"They did, but I have often found that everyone views things differently and that the slight change in perspective can lend great insight into a situation."

"I'm just a kid though," with no chess pieces to hold, Ronald began fidgeting about, his knee bouncing up and down from where he sat, his fingers tapping his leg. "I don't really see how I would know more than the Healer."

"I think you know more than anyone else," Dumbledore told him firmly. "This ability you have, it does not need to define who you are, my boy, nor do you have to fear it. Understanding how it works in all its intricacies is the first step to handling and harnessing it to yours and others benefits. This does not need to be a curse, Ronald, you do not need to hide in the shadows for fear of what you might do. You have been very brave thus far, facing many terrible things all alone, but I need you to be a little braver tonight. I need you to trust me and I need you to trust not just your family, but also yourself."

Dumbledore held out his hand, but Ronald did not take it.

"I don't know you."

The distrust this child had was strong and ingrained in his very core. It was odd to see someone from the Prewitt line so dark in nature, so closed off from the world. The mischievous nature was lacking, though he could see the cogs and gears working just as well and oiled as any other member of his family. He lacked Arthur's cheerful nature so well known to the Weasleys. He recognized other traits though, the cunning that had shined so brilliantly in Septimus Weasley and the dogged resilience Bilius had practically buzzed with when the man had belonged to the Order. And Sophie.

Sophie Weasley who had been his classmate. An enigma to him in school. A hard woman who always seemed to _know_ things she shouldn't. She had always appeared as a wounded animal to him, prideful and stubborn and always ready to fight. As if she expected the world to hate her simply for existing. Fierce. There hadn't been a humorous bone in her body. She had been broken by this terrible power her family hid from the world and at a very young age.

And each generation after had suffered the same fate.

Septimus.

Bilius.

Ronald.

But Ronald was still so young. He could be saved yet. He was not quite so hardened or hurt that Dumbledore couldn't push passed his shields at the heart beneath. The boy before him pushed strands of red hair out of his face in annoyance, watching him wearily as Dumbledore remained silent in his contemplations. If he wanted to save this little boy then he would have to start things out slowly.

"You're right, of course, I do not know you," Dumbledore pulled the chess board between them. "So why don't we have a game, you and I? We'll get to know one another. I'll tell you a little about myself and you do the same and eventually we might call one another more than mere acquaintances. How does that sound?"

Ronald glanced at the kitchen where his parents were no doubt avidly awaiting Dumbledore's prognosis.

"Do not worry about them, Ronald, they don't want to push you into anything anymore than I do. We are here to help you, not to force anything upon you or make this some terrible experience, we can go as slow as you need us to."

"You're Albus Dumbledore though," Ronald said slowly, "don't you have more important things to do than to help some defective kid?"

Dumbledore tapped the bridge of his nose.

"I have a grave secret of my own," he spoke conspiratorially, "Adults are terribly boring people. It's why I wanted to become a teacher in the first place, for the excitement of youth and discovery."

What most people tended to forget about Dumbledore was that he was an educator. His power and prestige sometimes overshadowed his job description, but at the end of the day Albus Dumbledore was the head of a 'school;' he was a teacher.

He preferred the open flexible minds to children to the narrow thoughts of adults. It was so much more intriguing to listen to children speak than to be forced to converse with the rigidity of adults. To watch your words and your hearts and to keep a distance between all and you always and forever. Children… kept him on his toes, forced him to re-evaluate his ideas every day. It was liberating and reminded him of his own humility where he often feared he might forget it in his arrogance.

"I don't think adults are boring," Ronald argued. "Their emotions are really complicated and hard to figure out. Kids are easy. They have like…" He made a small ball with his hand. "They only have a few strands of things they feel that are easy to feel out, but adults have dozens and dozens of different ones that I can't even name."

So the boy _was_ an empath of some sort, as Moody had suspected. A very powerful one at that. Dumbledore himself could vaguely sense the presence of a person and if he was really concentrating then he could feel out the mood of a person, but the boy had the ability to not only sense dozens of different emotions inside of another person, but also distinguish between them. He was not old enough to recognize the more complex emotions of a person, but he knew they were there.

Dumbledore made sure to nod casually, as if the boy hadn't slipped up.

"But children are more flexible in their thoughts," he pointed out. "Perhaps they have less complicated emotions, but they are learning them and experiencing what the world has to offer with new eyes and perspectives. Adults tend to lose the ability to accept new ides once they reach a certain age."

"So you like watching the new threads appear then?" Ronald asked, voice dripping in curiosity. "Percy's kind of like a mini adult. He tends to always feel the same. He feels strong stuff, you know, he's super complex, more than Charlie, but he doesn't really ever change like Charlie does so I guess Charlie's more like a kid than Percy even though Perce is only eleven and Charlie is old."

"Charles is only seventeen," Dumbledore reminded, thoroughly amused.

"He's almost a decade older than me," Ronald pointed out, then, as if he wasn't sure Dumbledore had heard him, he repeated. "A decade."

"A decade is a very long time," he conceded in amusement, at the back of his mind he felt his mental shields beginning to bend under the strain of Ronald's magic. The dark tendrils effects were harder to push against at this close range. It was no wonder the Weasley's looked so worn down this evening when he came and when he ran into Molly in Diagone Alley. He could feel his shields being steadily worn away through the sheer force of it all.

An empath with the unfortunate uncontrollable ability to darken the emotions around him. It would cause a vicious cycle then. Ronald's magic would cause the emotions in the room to darken in scope, becoming negative thoughts and actions, threads of unpleasant emotions. Ronald would then only be able to feel those dark emotions in people. Creating a world of shadows and hurt and pain for the boy.

He wondered if Ronald had ever felt a happy emotion from another person. If he had ever felt joy or excitement or fondness. He wanted to ask, to plea with the child to tell him he knew more than the terrible depths of the human soul. Arthur Weasley had told him all about how Ronald had believed he was a monster though and Dumbledore figured that was answer enough.

"Don't pity me." Dumbledore felt startled as he looked up into sharp blue eyes. "I know you can't help but feel sad," Ronald continued, "but don't pity me. It's a nasty emotion and I don't want it."

"I apologize, shall we?"

The boy gave a sharp nod, moving forward a white knight. Sitting directly behind the white knight was the boy's white King, the chess piece coming to attention and declaring again; 'It's in the spine.' Dumbledore eyed the piece as a thought struck him. The chess set was a gift from the boy's grandfather- Septimus Weasley. One of the afflicted. He said nothing of this though, instead, he moved one of his ponds forward.

The game had begun.

* * *

Everything happened so quickly that winter night. He couldn't remember anything spectacular about that day, only that in the beginning of it, there had been the Grim and that the Grim's chosen form had been a raven. It would be a few years before he recognized the significance of the form. Before he would know with a glance that the Grim was expecting something and wanted the best view for coming events.

That night though… well Ron had only thought about how irritating it was to have to see the creature every time he passed by the living room's window. Didn't it have better things to do than stalk him? He kept his eyes downcast though, keeping in mind his Uncle's warnings. Never look it in the eye. Don't pay it any attention. Don't talk to it when it speaks to you. All those things only encouraged the creature, made everything worse.

It watched him from a moonless sky, pitch black, but somehow, completely visible to Ron. He knew it wasn't a real bird. Not with the way it's eyes trailed him or the intelligent look about it. Ron wasn't sure how he always recognized the Grim, but he wished he couldn't. For once he'd like to be able to walk by the window and be able to assume the creatures in the night were just that. Creatures.

The thought reminded him of Scabbers.

The rat had done nothing out of the ordinary since it had arrived back at the Burrow. It didn't even show signs of being smarter than an average rat. It was rather unordinary, actually, just lounging around at various places of the house. Sleeping for the most part. If it felt especially adventurous it would find its way onto Percy's lap.

Perce had left Scabbers rat treats on the table again. His big brother would be going back to Hogwarts soon, so he should really remember not to leave things about like that. Otherwise Scabbers would be killed by the first girl who came upon him eating food on the table top.

Ron looked around, spotting the rat asleep, its body curled up in one of his dad's shoes, its head snoozing on a black lace. Ron snickered, imagining his dad putting his shoes on, only to land in rat droppings. He couldn't believe he'd thought the rat had nefarious plans or ill intentions. It truly was just a stupid, fat rat.

He placed the small container of treats beside the creature in the shoe by the door and went to turn when he hesitated. The creepy staring beast knew something was off with Ron. Which probably made it the best pet in the house, if he were honest with himself.

But what if something _was_ off about it?

Ron had to make sure that the rat wouldn't hurt Percy.

Which meant that Ron had to touch it.

Such a strange thing. Ron had never purposefully tried to use his ability on anyone before. Normally he tried everything to not see the bad memories or feel the emotions. Yet here he was, trying to figure out if a rat had nefarious plans. He really was one step away from joining his Uncle Bilius on the 'family to go to a nut house' list.

He reached out to pet the rat, his fingers meeting fur, but the soft emotions of an animal didn't come to him. Not even the 'smarter than a normal animal, but still animal thoughts' like before. Not at all.

There were dark things in his head. Ron dropped to the floor, pulling at his hair as the dark memories assaulted him. His heart hurt and he felt awful, but not like when his mum had lost her brothers or when his dad had seen Bilius taken away. It hurt in a different sort of way. One he'd never felt before.

It was a consistent throb. It was who he was. Ron grabbed for his heart, it raced too fast, made his breathing difficult. His dad was leaving them. He wasn't coming back. His fingers were scrambling to grasp hold but…

' _You're nothing special boy. Those friends you brag about… not once did I ever hear what you've done, what you've accomplished, it's always been them. They'll go far in this world and you'll feed on their leftovers, just like your mother.'_

And then his dad was gone.

It wasn't true. It wasn't true. But it was.

He was back at school and it was everywhere. In every gesture and in every lack of action. Peter was never asked to help out with the planning of the pranks, only the execution. Mindless things that could be done by anyone. Peter was never included in talks unless he inserted himself. He was invisible unless he forced himself on others. No one sought him out. He was… he was the spare, the extra hand, the fourth wheel… unnecessary.

No one needed him.

No Sirius or Remus or James. They were all so… special. They needed each other and thrived on each other's personalities, but not him. No, Peter wasn't like the others. He wasn't special in any sort of way.

The darkness was thick and all consuming. He needed to be special. He needed to be important. He had to find his place. No one was going to stop him. No one.

The desperation caused Ron to jerk in shock. He didn't like this. He didn't want this Peter near him. He couldn't take it. This wasn't one dark thought. This was the person's life. A miserable life of greed, of wanting more, of needing to be in the center of everything going on. He felt Peter's growing anxiety as he failed again and again to prove to himself that he was someone _worthy_.

Ron jerked, seizing as his head exploded, and then, very suddenly, Ron felt himself standing somewhere else.

 _He was standing in front of_ HIM. _The dark lord. His mask was firmly in place, a vivid blue with black streaks moving from the mouth to the eyes. There was throb of power in the air, alluring, caressing his skin._

 _The group of Death Eaters stood as one. He was one of them. One invited to the table of power. It made his skin crawl with pleasure. No longer would he be looked down upon. He would not be the forth wheel, the useless one. Here he had a place. He was protected!_

HE _called for attention. Red eyes scanning over them before landing on Peter. With a wave of his hand all the others began to leave. Peter stayed. Could feel the burn in his left arm demanding he do so. The dark lord's face turned towards Peters and a thrill ran down his spine. He stood straighter, though the action only made his stomach more prominent._

" _Yes, my lord?" Peter asked._

" _Severus has given me urgent news," his lord murmured. "He has given me a prophecy. One involved with children in the Order."_

" _Children, my lord?" Peter questioned. His stomach felt queasy at the thought, but he forced it down._

" _Two who fit," he whispered, the words rolling off his tongue like a snakes. "One of which is the son of James Potter."_

 _Ah. So that was it. Harry. But why?_

" _It is not your business to know why, Wormtail."_

 _Legilimancy._

" _Yeessssss," the dark lord hissed and then in delight added. "And you are his Secret Keeper."_

 _So that was it. Peter preened under the attention and he supplied the images of the place with ease, without a single thought. He presented the road and the name and the door. He presented the image of James and Lily and the baby._

 _This would earn the dark lords trust._

 _This would earn him power._

" _Indeed it will, Wormtail," his lord sighed. Cold fingers traced the underside of his mask, where porcelain turned into his considerable chin._

 _And then pain! Terrible, horrible pain! He didn't understand! What had he done? Why was Master hurting him? He was loyal and brave and was working for him, only for him!_

" _You will be rewarded," his lord sighed, "but only when I am assured of your loyalty. This… is just a taste of what failure will mean."_

 _The dark lord left._

 _Wormtail was left seething, whining as he turned over and tried to make the pain go away. James would never have hurt him like that. Sirius might joke, but he wouldn't have ever actually have done anything like that. Remus… would be horrified. He turned that over in his head. For the first time wondering if he'd done the right thing._

 _It was too late anyways._

 _He was a traitor and soon enough all would realize. The thought was painful. Maybe the most painful thing he'd ever felt. A gaping hole in his heart was opening up and he realized with growing dread that he would have power, but he would also have pain._

Ron flinched back. His fingers burned. He hit the frame to the kitchen's door. Blood hit his teeth, spilling over his lips, dribbling down. He'd bitten the tip of his tongue. Ron scrambled to get to his feet. His eyes wildly looking around for Peter. Wormtail. The dark lord's servant. His eyes landed on Scabbers. Sleeping.

Terror filled his heart.

It was… he was… the rat was… Ron stumbled back. He needed to tell his dad. He needed to tell mum. He needed to… needed to… Ron stopped, realization hitting him. The Animagus was asleep. The Death Eater was unaware of what Ron had seen.

If he alerted everyone though…

Ron shivered. What would the Death Eater do when it knew it was caught?

Attack. Kill. Hurt. Torture. A hundred thoughts passed through his mind as he turned to look at the creature laying harmlessly near the door. It wasn't harmless though. Ron knew. He'd seen. It had followed Voldemort. It had betrayed people to Voldemort. It had been happy to sign his friend's death warrants.

Tulip.

Kettleburn had given Charlie a Clabbert to take care of named Tulip. A Clabbert inside a magical cage designed to prevent escape of magical beings. Glancing once more at the rat, Ron took off for Charlie's room, stumbling up the stairs before thinking it best to keep silent rather than wake up the whole house.

Charlie had never learned to be a light sleeper. He'd been away from Hogwarts long before the twins were old enough to pull 'good' pranks. Ron snuck in easily, it was removing the Clabbert that was the true trick. It's red pulsate glowed in the darkness and Ron wondered if it was warning of Peter Pettigrew… or Ron himself.

Carefully, Ron laid out a handful of the creatures favorite spiral flies, backing away from the treat before opening the cage. The Clabbert was harmless to wizards, though Charlie would probably wake up with a number of 'gifts' left behind in or under his bed. Ron sent a silent apology to his brother before snatching the cage up when the creature ran after the treats.

Sneaking back into the hallway, Ron was relieved to see the rat still asleep. Dread snaked into his fingers causing them to tremble as he lifted his dad's shoe, rat and all, and gently placed it inside the cage. Clicking the lock shut, there was a feeling of relief.

Until it struck Ron that a _Death Eater_ had been in their home for years.

What was the man doing here? Why their family? They were bloodtraitors. Was he planning something with them? Did the Death Eaters or pure bloods have plans for them? Ron shuddered. What if one of them had been imperiused? What if Peter had somehow cast spells on his family while they were sleeping?

They needed Moody. The Auror would know what to do. How to handle this thing. He would be able to check the family for bad magic. He would know if anything had been done. Moody would be able to tell them what the Death Eater wanted with them.

Then all of Ron's plans went out the window.

Peter had woken up.

The rat watched Ron with _those_ eyes. The ones that Ron hadn't understood before. The ones that sent a shiver down his spine. He recognized the emotion now; suspicion. The rat knew something about Ron, enough to be weary of him.

Peter's mouth moved upwards in a snarl. Ron jerked back at the hissing and the arched back. Its eyes were angry now. Could he break the cage? Ron looked upstairs where all of his family was sleeping. Unaware. Peter could kill them in their sleep if he escaped. He needed to… Ron glanced outside, spotting something in the distance that made him pause.

The rat stepped out of the shoe, making its way to the latch. It knew! It knew! He wasn't a Clabbert, he was a person. Ron was so stupid. Of course it… _he_ knew how to get out. He was a person. A Death Eater. Ron lunged for the cage, tilting it so that the rat hit the opposing side of the metal. He grabbed the cage and threw open the back door, running full throttle away from the Burrow.

Ron stumbled in the snow, making sure the rat couldn't get near the latch. In the distance the pond grew bigger and bigger. Peter was shrieking in anger, but did he know? Was he aware? He forced his legs to move faster, crossing the large field in their backyard, avoiding gnomes where they snored. Ice covered dead grass gave way to the muddy banks of the ponds edge.

Ron stopped in his tracks. The pond was frozen over. He hadn't even considered this. Hadn't been thinking. Ron dropped the cage, Scabbers… No. No. No. Wormtail. The Death Eater. The Monster. Shrieked in surprised indignation. He didn't know. Wormtail hadn't realized yet what was going on.

Ron ran back into the forested area, eyes frantically searching for something… anything! He needed to… there! Ron scooped up the rock. Feet pounding the forested floor as he headed back. His heart hurt. It was trying to kill him, trying to burst from his chest. He couldn't think about what he was doing, could only act.

He threw the large rock into the lake as hard as he could. The ice shattered. Without breaking stride, he hauled the large cage over to the edge. The rat shrieked in realization, beginning to change into the Death Eater Ron knew it was.

Then it happened.

Ron had grabbed the cage because of its magical barrier, meant to keep venomous creatures in, but he hadn't thought… hadn't considered…. Ron vomited across the deck. It was screaming in pain. It was contorting. Muscles and bones and flesh. It wasn't succeeding. He wasn't succeeding. The man couldn't change. It screamed and clawed. Rat and man. Furred arms, too long, tail lengthening and shortening, face half human, jaw rounding out then stretching into a rat.

Ron gagged. Spit. Crawled back. Stared.

Every inch of the cage was taken up by the mutilated creature. Part human and part rat. It shuddered as it tried to shrink back down, but couldn't. A wheezing, squealing noise filled the air. Ron twitched, hand reaching to help, but…

It was a Death Eater.

He'd come here to stop it. To save his family from the monster hiding in the shadows. Swallowing the bile in his mouth, Ron reared back and kicked the cage. It titled towards the edge, then fell in. But not before the deformed, furred arm of bone had taken hold of Ron's ankle.

Ron was dragged in after the cage.

He only had time to take a breath. Hitting the water, he stiffened up, the ice tensing his whole body until his arms felt like he were dragging them through mud instead of water. Ron bulked, prying at the fingers digging into his ankle. Four feet down. Six feet down. Eight feet down.

His body jolted as they hit bottom. His clothes tangled his limbs, his boots acting like anchors. He couldn't move! Ron yanked off his jacket, letting it sink. His hat was lost in the struggle, his scarf like fighting a snake bound and determined to strangle him.

Ron kicked out. The bone fingers lost their grip. Ron struggled to reach the surface, but his shoes wouldn't… the sturdy snow boots tore his body downwards again. He ripped them off, coughing and breathing in water, flaying away and up… up… UP!

Ron hit the surface. Hand's grasping for purchase, but his fingers felt only ice. Spitting up water Ron tried to drag himself up when… bubbles. Bubbles were coming up. Ron glanced down at the water around him.

The Death Eater, Peter, he was drowning.

Ron was killing him.

Ron glanced at the deck, it was only a foot in front of him, all he had to do was grab it. This was what he'd come out here for. To protect his family. A small bubble of air touched his foot. It slid up his body and Ron watched as it hit the surface.

Was he a killer?

Was he a monster?

Ron reached for the deck with both hands. He used the wood to push off, back beneath the ponds surface. He struggled through the black water, back down into the small pounds depths. The cold stabbed at him. His lungs ached. His fingers fumbled through the slimy kelp and sand until they hit metal. His fingers tightened around the bars of the cage. Ron tugged it up, but it was too heavy. His feet stuck in the sand and Ron tried one more time to heave…

Then _it_ shot out from the cage.

Half formed bones gripped his jaw. Short fingers squeezed and all the air exploded outwards, bubbles floating away from him. Ron yanked away, but it held firm. An iron like grip held his face as Ron struggled for it to let go. Eyes, yellow and white pleaded with him from a half formed human face even as rat like teeth snapped at him, stopping only at the rustic metal.

It was choking.

Peter was choking.

Ron moved forward, yanking hard at the metal and unclenching it from the wet sand. Ron pushed off, pulling the heavy container with him. The thing's arm still tightly gripping his face. The hold was starting to slacken though.

Teeth cut into his fingers, Ron felt his grip loosen, felt the cage start to drag him down. It was too much, he couldn't… Ron reached up, his fingers slipped through the surface, touching air. Ron kicked again, his fingers touching the surface, but the cage… the cage was too much. He couldn't get it any higher. He couldn't breathe. He needed to let go.

He met Peters eyes, the only visible thing in the black abyss. They were scared. The bone like hand let go of his jaw. Released, Ron tried to lift it up, his head able to move, he managed a few inches closer, struggling to reach the surface, but he couldn't… he…

The cage slipped.

Ron panicked, trying to grab hold, but it sunk like a rock. Ron kicked upwards, head breaking surface, gasping for air. He sucked in, trying to fill his lungs as quickly as possible. Ron dove back down.

This time, the creature didn't react, didn't grab onto him as he grasped the cage's bars. Ron bent his knees and using all of his strength, ripped it from the sand. He fought upwards, breaking the surface in seconds this time. Reaching the deck was harder, he could hear it gurgling behind him, didn't dare look back.

Ron pulled himself up first, dragging the heavy cage out of the water and across the deck. The creature jerked and wheezed inside the magical cage. Ron flinched back, fingers bloody and shaky as he opened up the door, but Peter didn't move.

Peter didn't shrink.

Peter didn't change.

The creature's yellow white eye stared at him accusingly. The half formed human face trying to form words, but the jaw snapped instead. It's bone like fingers twitched and made grabbing motions, fur spreading out from a too thin human arm that lay limply on the wood.

"No, no, no," Ron whispered, he tugged at the bars trying to break them, but they remained as steadfast and glowing as they had when Peter Pettigrew tried to break it by transforming. "No!"

Ron whirled around.

"HELP! PLEASE! MUM! DAD! SOMEONE! CHARLIE!" Ron bent down and tugged harder. He didn't mean it. He hadn't wanted to hurt someone like this. He didn't want to hurt anyone. The rusty cage began to cut into Ron's hands, but he hardly noticed. "SOMEONE HELP ME!" Ron bellowed.

But no one came.

No one could hear him.

"I'm sorry," Ron wailed, "I didn't mean it. I just wanted to protect my family."

Bone like fingers grabbed onto his wrist. Ron jerked, looking up into the pleading yellow white eyes, it was then that Ron noticed something else. The half-transfigured creature… person… he was leaking blood. It slipped from the torn muscles and flesh and bone, and Ron realized belatedly that it covered his hands and clothes. The rat like mouth opened its maw, showing sharp teeth and a tongue that was too long to be human but tried to move like one anyways.

"...kIlL mE."

The wheezing noise came out guttural.

"Dad can fix this," Ron stood, backing away from its pained eyes. "He works for the Ministry. He can fix this."

"…tOo LatE."

"No, no…" Ron trembled, fighting back the bile in his throat. "I didn't mean… I wasn't thinking…"

"pLeaSeeee."

Ron hiccupped. He knees brought him to the deck. Ron closed his eyes, reaching instinctively out with his hands. He wanted to make the hurt go away. He wanted to make sure this person wasn't in pain. He didn't know how though. He didn't know what to. He needed dad. He needed his dad to tell him what to do.

Ron felt something warm.

He opened his eyes.

Light. It throbbed in front of him. A tiny ball of light. Ron pulled at it gently. Freeing it from the harsh prison of flesh. It came to him easily. It was so sad and miserable, so frightened and in pain… but there was no more pain. Ron could feel it the moment he tugged it free. It was so lonely. It throbbed with a need to prove itself, with a bitterness and hatred that caused Ron's breath to catch. It was greedy and all-consuming in its need to be important, yet its loneliness trumped all of that. It was why it chose such a big family to hide within. It had wanted that. It had needed that. It didn't deserve that. It was better than this.

Ron looked passed the light.

Peter Pettigrew's half transfigured body stared back blankly. He was dead. Ron screamed, feeling the light in his hands bob up and down as he realized what he was holding. Ron screamed louder.

Ron tried to put the soul back into the body, but it resisted, instead heading towards Ron. He threw himself backwards, legs scrambling as it tried to enter into him. He batted it away, but it simply hovered on the tips of his fingers, forcing all those terrible, complicated human feelings upon him.

"Don't be afraid, little one."

Ron whirled, but far from being comforted by the figure come to his rescue, he felt a thrill of terror. Despite the inky blackness of the night, no moon, and stars hidden beneath a layer of dark clouds, the Grim appeared as clear to him as someone basking in the sun. Her beauty unmatched and unquestionable, even as her smile seemed to want to devour him.

"Put it back!" Ron demanded, frantic as the small light continued to assault him with intense emotions. The greed and selfishness and bitterness and hatred and need and loneliness clawed at him, made him cringe and wilt all at the same time. It was cold and harsh and he _hated_ it. Hated this person.

"It is not I who did this," the Grim shrugged, then, as if there was not a half transfigured mutilated body beside them with its soul floating in Ron's hands, she gracefully sat beside him. Seeming to flow there rather than bending any bones.

"Please," Ron begged, "please put it back!"

"He is dead. Even if you had not removed his soul, he would have died. It would have been much slower though. Much more painful. I could force it back in, if you'd like, and you can watch him bleed out and try to morph back into a rat over and over again in agony."

Ron felt dread fill him to bursting as he looked at the body and back at the soul. Sniffling, he cupped it and tried to stop his trembling.

"What… what do I do with this?"

Grim smiled, one of her rare, kind ones that always threw Ron off guard. Then, she held out her hands, gesturing for him to hand it over. Ron hesitated, the thought of handing it over to Death herself an unwelcome knowledge, but what other choice was there?

Gently, he handed it over.

Black fingernails plucked it out of his hands. Ron almost grabbed for it, looking back at the body it belonged to and shuddering, but when he looked back, it was gone.

"Where…" Ron trailed off.

Grim reached forward, gently cupping his chin.

"There are some things that even you are not privileged to know." Her fingers trailed down to his chest, pressing the tips there and suddenly Ron found himself screaming, clutching at his chest, dragging nails across the searing pain. It disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving him breathless and curled in on himself.

"What did you…"

"It has begun," Grim told him, "Only the Vanguard and those who hide from me will be able to see the sign on your chest. All who see it will tremble and know that you are mine and that they will soon fall. Wear it well."

Then she turned and started to leave.

"Wait!" Ron had never willingly touched the Grim, but now his hands balled into the creature's dress in a blind panic, the cloth moving beneath his fingers more like skin. "What about… I don't know what to… you can't leave him!"

The Grim looked passed him at the corpse before glancing back at Ron.

"That is hardly my mess to clean up, little Vanguard."

"I don't understand… why are you doing this?"

But the Grim, for once, was ignoring him. Vanishing into the depths of the night like she owned it. Maybe she did. And Ron was left there in that dark, the smell of burned flesh in the air, a mutilated corpse behind him, and the remains of all his hopes of being normal sitting at the bottom of a nearly frozen over pond.


	5. Chapter 5: Tales of Beedle the Bard

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

* * *

Chapter 5: The Tales of Beedle the Bard

"Beedle's stories have helped generations of Wizarding parents to explain this painful fact of life to their young children: that magic causes as much trouble as it cures."

The ground was frozen solid and Ron's nails broke trying to dig into the dirt for a make shift grave. For a wild moment he thought this was it. He would be dragged off to Azkaban and sentenced for murdering someone, even if it was a Death Eater. Ron would be taken away from his family and he'd never be allowed to leave. He'd rot in the dark and no one would ever want anything to do with him.

The crevice was his salvation.

It was a crack in the earth that Fred had fallen into once and broken his ankle. The fix had been quick but it had left Fred a bit scarred. Enough that neither twin ever wandered over to the small outcropping at the edge of their home. The crevice had been Charlie's first accidental magic. Opening up a space for a hopeful five-year-old who had wanted bats to live nearby. No bats had ever come though and shrubbery had grown over the opening, giving it the appearance of not existing at all.

Ron tossed the thing and cage down that crevice without a hint of hesitation, though now that it was down there, the idea of someone discovering it and the difficult of moving it at a later date to a more far away place sat like a wet blanket on his soul.

More disturbing was the idea that Ron's blood was now mixed with its blood. The creature-Death Eater thing had pooled blood along every plank of wood on the deck. A trail of it had followed him as he tried to figure out what to do with the dead thing, bits of flesh coming away as it snagged on branches and rocks. And it had been with a sick sense of horror if it would somehow infect him in some way. As if even now Wormtail might try to drag Ron into death with him.

The metal had creaked and groaned as he heaved it through the shrubbery into the crevice but he felt no less exposed even when it wedged itself in the rock nearly twenty feet below. Especially when he turned to see the trail of blood and gore lingering on every rock and twig from the crevice back towards the pond.

His fingernails were all broken and his chest felt as if it had a giant squeezing his lungs between its fingers. He was impossibly numb and there was a terror running through him that far exceeded any feeling he'd ever experienced.

He sat, stiff and cold, trying to figure out how to erase it all. The trail. The cage. Himself. But all that happened was the wind. Like fingers driving their way into his mouth and nostrils, shortening his breath, making every muscle rigid.

"Ron?"

The sound of Charlie's voice sent a trill of fear into his chest, piercing him sharper than the cold itself, his heart pumping the half-frozen blood through his veins. He tried to speak, to somehow ward off his big brother from the sight, but only a croak came out. Then Charlie wasn't near the house, but directly in front of him. Hands clasping his shoulder and face ashen.

"Godric be damned, what happened?!"

Something slid off of his wrist onto the frozen ground and when Ron spotted gore covered bone, he vomited. What could he say? What could he… The smell of stomach acid and copper caused him to gag. He could feel Charlie patting him down, checking for injuries.

"It's Scabbers," Ron choked out and finally felt warmth, though it came in hot tears that cut into the ice on his face and the sick down his front. A memory of an enlarged spider flashed into his mind. The twins accidental magic had transformed his bear. Ron grasped at it, gesturing towards the 'stuff' around him. "He bit me and I got scared and…"

Ron choked on the lie or was it leftover vomit. He spit, acid running down the back of his throat.

"He kept getting bigger! I… I stole your cage and put him in, but he… he just kept getting bigger and then…" Wormtail growing, claw of half formed human muscle, of flesh bulging unable to get out. "I killed him," Ron sobbed. "I didn't know the cage would… I didn't…"

But he had. He'd done it. It was all his fault.

Charlie pulled him to his chest. Gore. Vomit. Snot. Blood. Charlie pulled all of that to his chest. He felt himself being rocked back and forth and wanted to protest, to tell Charlie that he didn't really understand the situation, that Ron didn't deserve human contact. He didn't tell Charlie any of that though.

"Please don't tell Percy I killed his pet," Ron choked.

Charlie picked him up. The heat of the house hurt against his skin, surprisingly unwelcome, but the cold of the tiles in the bathroom were even more so. Charlie stroked his hair as he started filling the bathtub.

"Lukewarm water," Charlie was muttering. "It's gonna be okay. It's alright. I've got you."

The words were so odd. Soft and gentle. Nothing like his normally gruff brother. Tough love and fierce hugs and wipe yourself off Charlie. Ron found himself set down in the bath tub, clothes and all. Charlie turned on the water, testing it with his fingers and muttering to himself. He found cups of lukewarm water being slowly poured down his legs and arms and one large, calloused hand taking a wet towel to his face.

The ice clumped in his hair and blood dried along his face began to pour down the drain. Charlie pulled out his wand and the of age wizard vanished several chunks of flesh and gore along his coat. He was helped out of his coat and then his shirt and shoes- each item scorgified before it was set on the bathroom floor.

Charlie's left hand wrapped around Ron's shaking ones.

"The freed Clabbert woke me up," Charlie explained, though Ron hadn't asked anything. He seemed to be talking just for the sake of filling the air with something other than Ron's shortened, panic ridden breaths. "I'm sorry this is your first experience with accidental magic. Well, not really your first, but the light poison thing isn't really…"

Charlie's jaw clenched and silence returned just long enough for another cup of lukewarm water to slide down his bared back.

"What I mean to say is… the first use of accidental magic is supposed to be something special and I'm sorry it was such a horrible thing. Don't worry about the cage or Scabbers. I'll take care of it."

Ron curled in on himself, leaning against his brother's arm. Charlie slowly made the water warmer and warmer, one large arm coming to wrap around Ron's shoulders as he worked despite how wet it made him. He felt Charlie pause before he stood up.

"I'm gonna go get some bandages and clothes for you to change into."

' _Bandages?'_

He tried to ask out loud, but only a wisp of air came out, so he nodded instead, shivering against the linoleum. He set his head down on the lip of the bathtub and noticed that his leg was bleeding. Long claw like marks down his leg from were Wromtail had gotten him at some point. He hadn't even noticed. That was what the bandages were four. He'd known about the scratches on his fingers and wrist, but they definitely didn't warrant bandages, but the ones along his leg did. And where his fingernails used to be probably did too. They didn't really hurt anymore though… that was probably a bad thing.

Charlie was back soon enough and a spell had him dried off in no time. A healing spell caused the blood to stop flowing and his big brother finished it up by covering the wounds in a thick, foul smelling potion that their mum usually kept for Charlie and Bill's shenanigans. When he was dressed, Charlie wrapped him in a blanket and carried him out to the couch.

"Stay here, I'm gonna clean up what's left of the rat, I'll be right back," Charlie told him.

"Charlie!" Ron called out in panic. His brother turned, looking sad and face pinched like when he was studying for exams. Charlie had to know though. Ron had to tell the truth. He had to admit that he was a murderer. He couldn't let Charlie clean the remains of a human without knowing… "It wasn't just a rat."

For some bewildering reason, Charlie's features softened. His big brother bent down in front of him and _hugged_ him.

"I know Percy cared a lot for his pet and that he talks more with it than us most of the time, but I swear that he'll be okay. That mangy thing wasn't a very good pet anyways. I've got some money squirrelled away for a rainy day and I haven't gotten Percy's present yet so I'll get him something better, something that doesn't sleep on him when he talks."

Ron sniffled, trying to get words to come out passed the lump forming in his throat. Charlie was well out the door by time he could bring him back again though. Terror coursed through him as he imagined Charlie finding the body and examining it, realizing that while parts were rat, more parts were human.

He covered his mouth with both hands, trying to suppress the wail that wanted so badly to come out. It rolled in his chest like a monster and Ron realized that if he let the noise out it might not even be human. He'd ripped Wormtail's _soul_ from his body. He'd stopped the _Death Eater_ from moving and breathing. He'd _stolen_ what made Wormtail a person.

What did that make Ron?

Did Dementor's steal souls?

Ron rocked back and forth, exhausted but oddly wired as he waited for Charlie to come back in. This was it. He was going to go to the place where all Dementors are kept. Imprisoned for existing. Only Ron had committed murder. He _deserved_ Azkaban now.

Where before he had always feared the idea of Azkaban, it had always been a question for him whether or not he or the others Dementors deserved to be imprisoned just for existing. Though dad had said they were used as Warden's for the prison. It didn't sound right to him though, if the Dementor's couldn't leave the prison, then didn't that make them just as much prisoners as the captives themselves?

Charlie didn't walk through the door. He sagged through it. Shoulders hunched and feet dragging as he closed the door as quietly as possible. Rather than accusations or waking up their parents, he slumped onto the couch and pulled Ron onto his lap, blanket and all.

"So…" Charlie said slowly. "You must have panicked pretty bad there kiddo, as the crevice I made as a kid was closed up tight, like it never existed in the first place. Instincts are a powerful thing. Now I might be wrong, but I'm thinking after Scabbers was engorgified inside the cage and you realized it wouldn't grow with him, everything went horribly wrong and you just wanted it all to go away, right?"

Ron nodded.

"You panicked. There was blood and gore everywhere… but Ron, its not okay to try to hide it. You made a mistake and this could have turned out far worse. Scabbers clearly attacked you in its fright of what was happening and you got away… but what if you hadn't? What if you'd been hurt worse than a few deep cuts on your leg? What if you'd frozen out there? What if you fell down the crevice while you were trying to hide the cage?"

Ron stayed silent. Charlie sighed and squeezed him tight.

"There's a potion I have to make and that's another thing you have to realize, Ron… an animal attacked you. If you'd gotten away with this and managed to keep it a secret then you'd never have drank the potion about to make and you could have contracted a dangerous illness or rabies or something equally as horrible."

"I'm sorry," Ron whispered, too shocked, too _relieved_ to truly mean it. Grounded for life. Never allowed outside again. Forced to degnome the lawn for all eternity by himself… there was no punishment his mum or dad or Charlie could give him that would be less gruesome than the thought of going to Azkaban. And right now it sounded as if Charlie was completely oblivious to what had actually happened. It _seemed_ in some miraculous, horrible way, that he was getting away with murder.

Because he was.

"I know that you've kept your secrets, Ronnie, I know that the idea of telling us what's actually going on is foreign to you, but you have to know that you can trust us with anything. Even terrible mistakes like this. No matter what it is, whether its accidental magic or your empath ability or if its something else no one can possibly imagine… you have to trust that we love you no matter what and that keeping secrets that hurt you only hurts us in the end. We want to help you."

The lump hardened further until Ron's jaw practically sewed itself shut. There was a choice here that Ron knew was important. A choice to confess or let everything fall where they may. To tell the truth or to continue lying about what he was and what he had done. He didn't want to tell Charlie, but he knew he should. He should tell the truth.

His body felt as if it were protesting the thought though. It was rigid, every muscle stiff and shutting down. He didn't want to test Charlie's sincerity. He didn't want to chance what they said against what they would actually do. The Weasley's were known among the rest of the wizarding world as bloodtraitors, even Ron at eight years old, was aware of this reputation. They were Gryffindors. They were morally upright. A family who believed in the rights of muggleborns and half-bloods and half breeds. They were good through and through.

Only Ron was not.

He was different and right now he felt every single one of those differences like a chasm between him and his big brother, between him and all of his family members. This wasn't right or morally sound or good at all. He was an abomination. He wasn't Babbitty Rabbitty the Witch who could outwit the evil King or the Knight who helped the ladies reach the fountain. He wasn't the good person who made it to the end of the tails. He was the obstacles, the wizard without a heart, he was Death.

So instead of doing the right thing, Ron lied, he rambled out one terrible made up story after another, his voice becoming more panicked and horrified with each horrible thing that slipped out. Anything to not reveal what truly happened. To hide further away from his upright, wonderful, loving family.

"I trust you. I'm sorry. Scabbers doesn't like me and he snapped at me when I tried to give him a treat and all I could picture was my teddy turning into a giant spider and suddenly he was becoming a giant and I panicked. He scared me and all I could think about was keeping him locked up and Clamberts aren't dangerous so I ran into your room and grabbed the cage. All I could think about was getting it away from me so I took it outside, but Scabbers didn't stop growing and I tried to save him, but I was too late and he started outgrowing it so fast and there was blood coming from everywhere and he was looking at me and trying to grab me and…"

"What's going on?"

Ron stopped abruptly. His dad was on the stairs, looking harried and sleep deprived, but concerned. His dad always looked that way lately. And Ron realized that he didn't think he could do it. He couldn't explain again. Couldn't lie again. He was all used up and entirely too tired to handle saying another word.

Every bad thing had left him and all that was left was a numb hollowness that threatened to consume him. He clutched weakly at Charlie's chest and his intake of breath tried again to choke him. He felt so heavy. Staring at the crook of Charlie's neck, it was hard to even lift it enough to _look_ at his dad.

He closed his eyes. Hearing his dad's questions to Charlie, but not really registering them. They faded into nothing and soon enough even the awareness of his too fast heart faded away.

* * *

Arthur Weasley was sleep deprived and guilt ridden because he wasn't sleep deprived _enough_. Ron was such a quiet little kid that he hadn't thought much about letting him stay up alone in the wee hours of the night. He was always well behaved and lacked the trouble making tendencies of his older brothers.

But lately, the more protected Ron was from light, the more excitable he was. It seemed with each layer of this curse they pulled back the more of Ron there was. Arthur never would have imagined how sociable Ron could be. What a little chatter box his little boy actually was and all the implications that suggested to who he'd been these last years.

To leave him alone in the night was an awful feeling. The children needed a regular schedule though. _He_ needed a regular schedule. Molly had been adjusting herself, staying up much later and getting up in the late morning, but she needed to keep an eye on the twins and Ginny as well.

Ron, who had always been so well behaved, had seemed to be the obvious choice. The more responsible of the children, to leave on his own for a little bit. Leave the radio going on the Quidditch recap. Have 'lunch' of sorts prepared for him. It had gone well, this new routine, these last five months.

Arthur buried his head in his hands.

Accidental Magic.

It was the delight and terror of every magical families lives. It was spoken of with pride, confirmation of a magical core that guaranteed placement in Hogwarts. Sometimes it was wonderful. Like Bill, who had been playing with the twins on a toy broom with one of the infant twins when one of them fell, in his terror Bill had slowed George down until the little boy was giggling on the grass asking to go again. His oldest son, the protector, who had learned early on how fragile a child's life was.

Then there had been Charlie who'd created the crevice in the backyard. Percy who created a light to read in the dark, accidentally causing his fingertips to glow so he could read for just one more minute.

It could also be terrible. Like when the twins had, in a fit of mischief, turned little Ronnie's teddy bear into a spider. Like Ginny who had, in a fit of rage, turned the ball sailing towards Fred into a rock. Fred had needed a Healer and Arthur wasn't sure who in that incident was more upset, George or Ginny. Fred had taken it like a champ, of course, going on about how if they ever really needed to tell them- the twins, apart, they could just shave both their heads to see the scar.

This though…

Accidental Magic fueled by terror. Percy had mentioned how Ron seemed to be scared of Scabbers. Ron never touched any of the animals in the household and Arthur had never really thought much about it. Until now. Now that his little boy had been in the middle of yet another horror. It was always Ron.

But it was only inevitable, wasn't it? Letting a child be alone in the middle of the night for so long, no one watching him. Something was bound to happen sooner or later and Arthur should have realized that. He should have taken more precautions.

"He'll be alright, Arthur."

He looked at the voice. Poppy Pomfrey stood in the hallway of his house. After the disaster that had happened at St. Mungo's neither he nor Molly had wanted to risk visiting the Ministry affiliated hospital. A quick patronus to Dumbledore had ensured they wouldn't have to.

He stood, peeking into the bedroom at his little boy, bedridden and curled up.

"How bad…"

"Hypothermia. Mild frostbite. He'll suffer through a nasty case of pneumonia in the next few days but I've left potions on his dresser that should make sure nothing worse comes of it. I repaired his nails and the few cuts on his person. All in all, we're very lucky Ronald was found by Charlie. If he'd been out there any longer…"

Arthur nodded tightly. Poppy folded her bag, looking as weary as Arthur himself felt. It had been a long night and the sun was already starting to peek over the horizon. A fake mini sun was starting to rise over his youngest suns wall. Arthur still it, turning back the little fake clock so that the moon once more hovered over the wall. Ron slept on, unaware, his face flushed with fever and puffy from sobbing.

"I'm sorry we interrupted your vacation time, Poppy, we really appreciate it."

"Nonsense," the old Healer smiled at him sadly. "It's not the first case we've had we're the Ministry finds someone with an ability they want. Unfortunately, Ronald won't be the last, I'm the personal healer to over a dozen young souls who can't go to St. Mungo's for one reason or another."

Arthur nodded, knowing Nyphradora Tonks was one of her recent charges in Charlie's year. Hagrid the Game's Keeper had been another several years ahead of his own class in Hogwarts. A thought struck him.

"Was Bilius one of those children?" Arthur asked.

Poppy paused, glancing back into the room before closing Ron's door carefully.

"No, but only because he and his father wouldn't let me within an inch of that child. Septimus insisted on having a private healer examine Bilius whenever the need arose. It is, of course, the right of the parent to do so, but I always found it very suspicious."

Arthur nodded, another piece of an ever growing dark puzzle settling into place.

"Whatever curse or gene or magical milady my father and brother had… it was passed down to Ron," Arthur told her, trusting the woman implicitly. They had fought together during the last war though Arthur hadn't been a member of the Order like his brother, he knew Pomfrey had been.

"I understand. Dumbledore wanted me to let you know that he will be by again once Ronald is strong enough to receive visitors," she added quietly. "I will be back in a few days. Fire call me if he worsens though. I don't think it will, but its best to be careful."

He thanked her and saw her to the door. Molly bustled by, a heap of blankets in her arms and Arthur knew that she fully intended to camp out in Ron's room for the evening. He didn't stop her. Simply pulled her into his arms and delivered a Chace kiss. She braced against his chest briefly, as if she were trying to draw strength from him before departing. He squeezed her arms as he let her go.

It always seemed that the worse things got, the less words they needed to communicate. It was probably the most powerful thing between them. The intimate knowledge of how the other felt during these moments in their lives.

"Is Ron alright?" Arthur was startled out of his thoughts. Looking up, he saw George standing in the doorway. The ten-year-old looked pensive, arms folded and hair askew. "Is he sick again?"

"There was an accident while we were sleeping," Arthur said carefully. "He tried to fix it by himself and ended up falling into the pond, he's sick, but he'll be okay."

Far from appeasing George, the news only seemed to upset him.

"What kind of accident? Was it Ron's magic again?"

Not sure how to answer, he opted out altogether.

"Your mother's up there with Ron right now. He's feeling pretty miserable and he'd probably like it if you sat with him for a bit."

George frowned at him and Arthur was struck with the knowledge that his children were growing up and no longer fell for the easy tricks of evasion. Soon enough he'd have to sit down with his youngest and start teaching them about the more frightening aspects of growing up. He thought he had more time. For the moment though, George apparently had decided to let him get away with his tactic this time, turning and heading up the stairs, passed his own bedroom door.

Arthur dug deep and pulled out his Gryffindor courage as he heard the tell tale signs of Percy moving about. Ever the early riser. Escaping George had reminded him what other sort of terrible conversation he would be having this morning. Mainly discussing the terrible end to Percy's pet.

Why couldn't being a parent ever be easy?

* * *

Apparently being the evil minion of Death didn't mean Ron couldn't get pneumonia. Diving into a frozen pond and then digging into ice-covered earth for an hour to fail at burying a corpse before dragging it across the lawn to throw it into a crevice did that to a person.

A Healer came, but not one that Ron was familiar with, she was from Hogwarts, mum said, one who worked directly under Dumbledore. It was odd that a school Healer would come to the Weasley's house though, wasn't it? It must be because of what happened at St. Mungo's and the scary Healer who thought bad things, who liked research more than people.

"You're accidentally more trouble than me and George are on purpose," Fred had grumbled earlier that morning. The twins had come in to try to play exploding snaps with him, but Ron hadn't been able to stay awake long enough, even with the noise, to complete a single game. His head hurt and each small explosion had caused him to flinch back from the deck.

The twins weren't completely deterred though. The soon to be ten-year-old's began talking conspiracy theories, ones that Aunt Muriel had been ranting about during her short visit earlier that week. Ginny had been coming in and out as she pleased; holding different clay figures she'd been commanding to slaughter each other over a clay warrior princess who refused to marry any of them. She would come in to tell him each of the figures stories, sitting carefully by the door rather than his bedside, and speaking far too loud. She told him it was easier this way, to make herself stay cheerful, though Ron usually appreciated it a bit more when her voice didn't bounce around in his head.

At the back of his foggy mind, always, was Wormtail and the Grim. His eye staring at him in agony, the arm reaching forward with rat like fingers stretching out, blood sliding across the planks of wood. And the Grim. The creature stalked his nightmares now more than even Wormtail. Every time he closed his eyes all he could see was that thing waiting for him.

It had been three days and no one knew.

No one even suspected.

Ron was torn between feeling a deep sense of relief and wanting to scream the truth until his lungs bled. He was a murderer. He was a monster. Any trace of doubt he'd had shriveled up and weighed him down until his every movement made him feel exhausted.

Bad people didn't get away with bad things. They were taken away to Azkaban and locked away for good. Yet no one knew. He could feel the truth in his chest like a festering wound and the thought of speaking it out loud caused a sob to break out. More than that though, the thought that anyone could find out, discover the truth of what truly happened, what was really in that closed off crevice… it filled him with blind terror.

* * *

It seemed like Ron was conspiring to not spend Christmas with them. Oh, Arthur knew that Ron was hardly in control of getting sick and far less so for the accidental magic. There was a part of him that simply felt exasperation though and that part was the same aspect of himself that recognized the look in Ron's eyes. His little boy seemed almost relieved to be missing out on Christmas and _that_ was too terrible a thought to contemplate.

Bill had arrived this morning and they were all gathering to have Christmas eve lunch together before heading to the Christmas party at the Ministry. Dumbledore had volunteered to watch Ron for the evening, hoping to make more progress. Arthur, meanwhile, had guiltily been sneaking glances at Bill, but his son's tired continence and the simple head shake when he'd first arrived had already spoken volumes for how far he'd gotten with the dark tomb like book they'd picked up from his older brother.

Arthur cut a slice of the white chocolate cake, raspberries and chocolate drizzle along the top, placing it onto a plate. A hot cup of tea with honey in it though no lemon. Ron always claimed it ruined the taste of the tea. Molly gave him a weak smile as she handed him a tray to put it on, adding a small potion and a plate of carefully cut turkey laden sandwiches.

"Make sure he takes all of it," she said simply, "not just the cake?"

"Of course, Molly Wobbles, what sort of man do you take me for?"

"One who thinks cake is appropriate for a sick child," she mumbled against his lips, kissing him softly before pulling away.

"It's Christmas Eve."

She swatted him as he danced away.

Arthur made his way up the stairs, listening to the wonderful sounds of all his children bustling about the house again. The sound of feet moving about and voices rising and falling with Molly's strong bellow mingled in like a choir director. When he opened Ron's door, his heart leaped into his chest as he realized the magic that they'd worked so hard to help Ron control was now anything but.

All of the cheer and lightness in his heart seemed to shrivel up into a ball, blown away by a nonexistent wind. He felt cold and lifeless. Why were they bothering to help him control it when this was the result? How would Ron ever be able to go outside, into public with this terrible curse running through him? What sort of horrible accidental magic was this?

Arthur shook himself. Hard. No. No. This was the magic talking. That was not him. Arthur dug deep and silently cast non-verbal magic around himself with good thoughts in front of him, like a patronus but in shield form.

Those _thoughts_ had not been Arthur Weasley. Ron's magical touch must be out of control because he was sick. Ron had been getting _better_ and there was no reason to give up hope simply because there was a small set back. He would have to take note of this… maybe there was a way they could lesser such loss of control in the future during times of illness for Ron.

Arthur saw that Ron was not in his bed.

"The corner, good sir, all bundled up and ready for an invasion," Asha chirped from a shelf. Arthur spotted what the mirror bird meant. In a fort of blankets with Ron's figurines set up like a barrier, his little boy was curled up in a ball in the corner of his room. His face was flushed with fever, bangs wet against his face from sweat, looking pale and small on the floor.

He settled on the floor, setting the tray aside to shake his boy awake. Ron grimaced in his sleep, seeming in pain, but his eyes opened to spot Arthur.

"Hi dad."

"Do I want to know?"

Ron shrugged, his breathing becoming rough as he tried to sit up, Arthur gently pushed him back down. His fingers traced Ron's face before settling on his forehead, heat radiating under his fingertips. He uncorked the medicine and brought it up to Ron's lips. Ron made a face but swallowed it without complaint.

"There you are. Not so bad. I should have brought up water instead of tea."

"It's okay," Ron told him quietly.

For a bit of time silence consumed the room. Arthur helped Ron sit up enough to drink and take a few bites and Ron seemed intent on staying awake, watching the fake stars move about slowly on his wall.

"Is Percy okay?" Ron finally asked.

Arthur sighed. He wasn't sure if even Percy knew that. His third eldest had yet to visit Ron, stuck between concern for his little brother and anger at what had been done to his pet. If it had been the twins or Ginny who had done this, he would have sat them down and talked to them about being more careful and to not allow terror to control your magic.

Ron though, he had spent so long being terrified of his ability and allowing that fear to control his actions… they had talked about it numerous times in the last few months but there was no way to fix such an extensive problem in such a short amount of time.

Ron felt so guilty about what his ability had caused and had tried for so long to deal with it himself that this incident would surely be a set back to all the work they'd managed these last long months. It had been going so well, despite not having answers.

"Percy will be okay," Arthur said instead of those thoughts.

Big blue eyes looked at him reproachfully, as if he could see the lie Arthur was telling him, but Ron didn't call him out on it. Instead he pulled away and leaned against the wall instead of Arthur's arms. Trying to ignore the stab to his heart, he brought the cooling tea up to Ron's lips and encouraged him to drink.

Ron turned his head away.

"Dad, when you look at my eyes… what do you see?"

Arthur sat back and put the tea on the floor, examining Ron, trying to figure out where this had come from. Where the desperation in his boy's voice had sprung up from. Did he mean who was he? Was he questioning if he was a monster again? Arthur reached forward and tilted Ron's chin up, closely examining the fevered cobalt blue eyes watching him.

"Hm… well, I see fear," Arthur said carefully, knowing that if he wasn't honest, Ron would know immediately. "Fear of your magic. Fear of what you've accidentally done. Fear of your family, because you seem to think we will change our minds about wanting you, which will never, ever happen."

Ron sniffled.

"I see someone who has resilience and stubbornness, refusing help even when its all around you. Someone who thinks they are alone."

Arthur used his thumb to wipe away the tears sliding down Ron's cheeks.

"I see someone who has a very big heart and wants to protect everyone. I see someone who has a world of empathy, but whose not so very good with words or expressing such big feelings. Someone who yearns to be close to others, but the idea of it terrifies them."

Arthur moved his hands away from Ron's face and then used them to pull his little boy into his lap. Ron curled into him. His fevered face hot against Arthur's chest. He rocked Ron back and forth, running his fingers through his sick little boy's hair.

"Is that what you were expecting?" Arthur asked. Ron didn't answer though. Fast asleep against his chest. Worn out not only in his body, but in his soul. He stayed like that, rubbing Ron's back in the darkness of the room, only the fake stars and moon on the wall to light the Christmas Eve day. He did not move until he heard the sounds of Dumbledore downstairs.

* * *

Things were not looking good.

Members of the Ministry had shown up in his office a week ago, questioning what he was teaching Ronald Bilius Weasley and how long the child had been under his 'apprenticeship.' As they had worded it.

Dumbledore had lied smoothly enough. Covering the Weasley and ensuring that all precautions had been taken. It was a bit frightening really, how quickly Fudge had attached onto the idea of stealing a child away from the home of his family just because he had an ability not heard of before. He'd known the man was opportunistic and cruel to those not of pureblood status, but he hadn't quite realized how far the man was willing to go even to those he considered of 'equal' status.

He'd contacted Alastor shortly after, deciding that they needed something a bit more concrete to ensure Ronald's safety. Alastor had already assured him that he would be speaking with Amelia Bones, head of the Auror department, and together they would be getting in contact with a law official they both knew and trusted.

Arriving at the Weasley home was a breath of fresh air despite the slightly morose atmosphere about the place. There was a stubborn cheerfulness about them that was impressive, as even on the bottom floor, in the kitchen and heart of the Weasley home, he could feel Ronald's dark magic running rampant.

"I see Ronald is… upset," he noted, walking through the door.

"More like sick," one of the twins piped up. "He's had a fever for two days now. It's miserable."

Dumbledore chuckled.

"He is quite the extraordinary empath," the Professor muttered.

"Empath? Is that what he is?" the other twin demanded.

"Of a type we haven't seen before, yes, but an empath all the same," Dumbledore told them. "Are you excited about the party?"

"Hard to here."

One of the twins hit the other.

"Fred!"

"I didn't mean it in that way… I'm just saying," the twin named Fred muttered. "He wasn't like this the last time he was sick."

"It was worse than normal though."

"Do you think that means he's more sick than last time then?"

The two children had completely forgotten him in their talk, concern now leaking out in waves from Fred. Their own auras were sparkling with mischief despite the dark cloud hovering over them. Creativity flowing off of Fred while innovation practically glowed from the other. They would certainly make good additions to either Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, though he suspected they would rebel against the thought of Ravenclaw. So many children never realized that Rowena Ravenclaw supported all forms of intelligence, not just academic. The Dreamers and Inventors and Creators were all welcome in her house, not just those who love a good book.

"I'm sure Ronald will be fine. He has a good many people watching out for him." Dumbledore hid a grin as both boys jumped. He did find more than a little amusement in catching children off guard.

"Fred, George, please leave Albus alone, my dears. Go get ready. We'll be leaving soon."

Molly Weasley waved the boys out, giving an apologetic grimace to him as she waved her wand about. Plates and dishes leaped off the table, putting themselves to rinse even as the table cloth flew off towards what he assumed to be the laundry room.

"No need, no need, they were just entertaining an old man with wit and charm. Fine boys, Molly, they'll make Hogwarts proud when they are sorted."

Molly was nodded absentmindedly, looking back into the living room.

"Bill wants to speak with you before we leave, if its not a bother."

Dumbledore nodded.

When he found William, it was to see him holding a bundle in his hands, hidden by a brown cloth. The young curse breaker practically jumped out of his chair when he spotted him in the doorway.

"Professor! I'm glad you're here. Listen…" William paused, pulling out his wand and casting a privacy charm. He gestured to the chair beside him and Dumbledore took it gratefully. "Listen, dad and I went to Uncle Phillips house and recovered a text, but… we suspect it gives us more details about what this family curse is about. I'm been examining it for months now though and…"

"How to open it is eluding you?" He tried to stem the curiosity for the sake of politeness, but he feared it had slipped through. "May I?" William was far too relieved to notice Dumbledore's rudeness, handing it over as if the text were trying to burn him.

He took it easily enough. It was neither hotter than a normal text nor heavier. Removing the cloth, he could see how they'd come to the conclusion that this was a dangerous text. The book in his hands was made of some sort of skin. The spine was made up of clawed bone like fingers ensuring the book did not fall apart. The lock itself was a hand, large and gnarled looking, clasping the back and front cover down tight.

"Phillip said that only those who have inherited the curse can open it, but we don't want Ron anywhere near this thing," William told him.

He nodded his understanding. Its visage was more intimidating than many of the texts in his own restricted section. Though he suspected that was the point. It was a cover that was meant to dissuade any from broaching it.

"Has anything untold occurred while trying to get into it?"

"I tried getting the hand to open, it grabbed me, only for a minute, but it took days to warm up afterwards."

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully as he examined the spine. Something nibbled at the back of his brain at that word. A book that refused to open for anyone except those who'd inherited a mysterious curse. A book that warned those who dare try to open not too with a frightening cold touch. He adjusted his glasses, squinting to examine the claw like nails attached to the hand and along the spine.

"Are these…"

"Runes? Yes. Warding against trespassers," William agreed. "There's a blood mark as well. Whatever this curse is, it must be able to see it within the blood of a person."

Such an odd little puzzle…

Dumbledore's thoughts came to a screeching halt and he had to stop himself from peering up the stairs. So that's how it was. The Weasley's really were a remarkably clever family. So many people had underestimated them throughout the years and he found himself relishing in just how much this family would turn heads in the future.

"If you'll let me, William, I'd like to do my own examination of the text," Dumbledore tapped the book thoughtfully, giving the fresh Hogwarts graduate his best disarming smile.

"Of course, you have a theory or two?"

"Yes, I have a thought brewing, but I believe a good game of chess with young Ronald will be most illuminating."

"You think Ron knows how to open the book?" William demanded, looking about ready to jump into action.

"I believe he was given the key quite a long time ago, yes, but I don't think demanding it of him is the best way to go about getting it."

William paused, glancing at him anxiously.

"What do you mean? Ron doesn't even know about the book. We didn't know about the book until a few months ago."

"I suspect Septimus left it with Ronald, disguised as something else entirely, but it is only a theory. Let us not make Ronald more sick by pushing the boy right now. If it is so then I will notify Arthur and Molly immediately upon unearthing the truth."

William settled down, giving a short, tight nod.

"Bill! We're heading out the door," Charlie hollard.

"Coming!" Bill eyed the book one more time before heading towards the door. "Please tell me if Ron tells you anything."

When all the Weasley's had left the home, Dumbledore prepared himself for the task ahead.

Prying information from Ronald Weasley.

* * *

There was something wrong with his eyes. The Grim had done something and only he could see it. Ron squinted at himself in the bathroom mirror, pulling his skin down and examining the person staring back.

Yup.

His eyes were milky white in the mirror. Like great Aunt Muriel's husband had been before he died. When he'd asked his dad though, he was unaware of any change. Which meant that this was either Ron officially losing his mind or this was the Grim's sign that he was hers. Did this mean that he was close to death?

Ron sat back on the sink, frowning at his image. He finally had a real conversation with the creature his Uncle had been so terrified of and the result had been learning absolutely nothing and having more questions than ever before.

He was even less sure about the mark on his chest. It was very intricate, that was for sure, black swirling lines making up an odd-looking wand and a circle inside of a triangle. There was a monstrous looking figure faded in the background of it. Bone like wings spreading out from its back. He wasn't sure how this was supposed to represent Death as it held none of the terrifying beauty of her preferred form nor any signs of the other ones, not the crow or dog or the disfigured child.

This, at least, he was more than happy that no one could see. He remembered Bill telling their mum that he was considering a curse breaker tattoo and she had lost her mind lecturing and yelling him into submission about job aspects and respectability. He was pretty sure his mum would skin him alive if she ever found out _Ron_ had one. Forget that Ron hadn't wanted anything to do with the strange mark or that Death herself had put it there, he'd he in a grave marked 'idiot boy' before the Grim got its hands on him.

He wiped at his face, feeling the gross sweat slide down his cheeks and make everything feel sticky. He turned on the tap and tossed cold water on his face, but all it did was make him feel sticky _and_ wet. He made a face at his reflection. It really was rather ominous looking. Like he was a bad guy in a story or something.

…

He probably was.

A knock sounded at the bathroom door.

"Ronald, are you alright?" The sound of the Hogwarts headmaster's voice reminded Ron that his family was gone. He eased himself off the countertop and padded over to the door, cracking it open only to be greeted by one of the strangest sights he'd ever seen.

Albus Dumbledore, the graceful and wise old man he'd gotten to know these last few weeks, stumbling back away from him. Eyes wide and almost fearful… his half-moon spectacles sliding down the bridge of his nose until they very nearly came off altogether.

Ron opened up the door all the way, confused and scared by the response, only to notice that the man was staring directly at his chest, where the black mark of Death stood out against his pale skin. From the corner of his eye, Ron saw the Grim come forward out of the shadows, a smile on her face.


	6. Chapter 6: The Grim

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

A/N: This one was very difficult to write. Despite knowing what needed to happen in the scenes, they continued to come out… forced? They didn't flow well and the characters didn't feel 'in-character.' I scrapped three scenes for this chapter before I finally felt satisfied.

-It was odd to write a scene where Dumbledore wasn't the most powerful character in the room and didn't have control of the situation. Dumbledore is a character who I've always seen as very manipulative, but also as good intentioned. I see him as someone who doesn't have much interest in those who don't have that special something about them. He is both arrogant and humble, selfish and selfless at the same time. A very complicated old man who is both extremely likeable and someone who I, at times throughout the series, have been disgusted with. I admire Dumbledore's patience and his empathy, but I also hate his favoritism and clear arrogance and his tendency towards manipulating even those closest to him. Dumbledore was, in part, a large inspiration for this entire story, because I can genuinely see him both caring for Ron and using him for his own ends.

-I switch between POV's in this to show that what Ron sees and what Dumbledore sees aren't the same thing. So where it might seem as if I'm writing scenes that conflict, it is simply huge difference in how the characters witness things.

-Dear gods of writing why was this such a difficult chapter to write? I am never writing such a complicated puzzle into a story ever again. Just trying to explain the thought process of my puzzle into words was like doing advanced calculous without a calculator.

Read on.

* * *

Chapter 6: The Unwritten Tale of Grim

"But Death was cunning."

Death had a soft spot for Ron.

The eight-year-old was well aware of this. Both his grandpa Septimus and his Uncle Bilius had told him about how cruel the creature could be. How Grim often times demonstrated her power over them or stalked them relentlessly. And while Grim could be frightening and its presence in the background near constant, it seemed to him that it was very rare for the creature to be purposefully cruel.

Standing in front of Dumbledore though, seeing the fear on the old Headmaster's face, and witnessing the growing smile stretching Grim's lips, he could see exactly what they meant.

Grim knelt down beside him. Her cold arms wrapping around his shoulders as black eyes focused on Dumbledore. Ron kept himself facing forward, use to ignoring her presence. She licked her lips, a tar, black like substance stretching out along her tongue and touching his cheek. Lingering like smoke after his mum burned last weeks meal.

"Tell him I know he wears the cloak under his robes, that he holds the Elder wand."

Ron said nothing. Watching as the Headmaster bent down, slow and cautious, examining Ron in the same manner he was examining the Headmaster. Old fingers traced the mark on his chest before moving up, finding his eyes and tilting his cheek to see them from the side. Seeing, Ron was sure, the milky white that Ron had just seen in the mirror staring back at him.

"What has done this?" Dumbledore demanded. "Ronald, are you yourself? What has happened?"

Ron felt the Grim stretch over his shoulder, leaning forward, its black hair falling around him in her need to devour the person in front of it. The urge to tell Dumbledore to run, to flee and not look back, was strangely absent. He knew, somehow, that the creature could not get its hands on the old man. It was, perhaps, the frustration lining her features, not just the aggressive excitement dripping in her voice.

"You know it in your bones, though you fear to say it out loud," Grim hissed. "My Vanguard delivers a warning of death to those who hide from me. A message that strikes the heart upon eye contact. You are being hunted."

The claw like nails reached forward as if to touch Dumbledore as she had down to Meredith Binns years ago, but her hands passed through, leaving no mark. Ron cringed as he felt her grip on him tighten in fury. The Grim could not mark Dumbledore for Death as he had seen her do to others.

Ron suddenly understood why she was so obsessed with him. Ron was her anchor to the world of the living. She was able to touch and speak with Ron, but not other mortals, and those who'd found a way to cheat Death somehow, to avoid being marked, could still be touched by Ron himself.

He was her means of murder.

"Tell the wretched human I know he wears my cloak. Tell him I have a deal for him."

Her cheek touched his own. The distance Grim normally kept from him all but gone since the incident at the pond. Ron wasn't sure how to act, how to pull away. She was too excited, acting without thought, and it was something he'd never seen in the creature before. Ron felt his breath come out in an icy cloud and a convulsion to obey too strong to ignore overwhelmed him.

"You're wearing the Grim's cloak," Ron said quietly. "She's angry, but wants to make a deal."

Dumbledore paled.

For the briefest of moments, the Headmaster's hands left his shoulders and Ron could _feel_ the instinct to run course through the man. A squirming emotion that sought to overtake all of Dumbledore's other thoughts. Then, like a trap door, a violent burst of determination struck and a resolution to face things head on hit Ron like a train in full motion. The rapid change in emotions, the control of emotions, Ron realized, took his breath away. He'd never felt someone consciously change how they reacted to a situation and could only guess it was because there were few 'old' people he'd encountered in his life.

"Death is here?" Dumbledore said calmly.

Here was the moment when Dumbledore earned his respect forever more. It was a moment that the Headmaster was not aware of, but one that had changed how Ron viewed him. The fact that he was afraid, terrified more like, and had _chosen_ to stay and face things, to face Ron and the Grim, because it was the right thing to do.

Ron pushed his own gratitude, awe, and terror away to nod.

"She is. She also said something about a wand."

Dumbledore visibly hunched, drawing the wand that Ron had seen him use many times before now from its holster. It was longer than most wands Ron had been in contact with. Three bead-like wooden knots along its length.

"And… what is this deal? Why does she choose a child to communicate through?" Dumbledore asked wearily. The man had kept his left hand on Ron this hold time, squeezing it reassuringly, as if to say 'I'll figure out how to get you out of this.' He almost smiled at how out of depth the first order wizard was proving to be in the face of his curse.

But then the Grim began to whisper in his ear again, her words sharp and commanding.

"Grim demands you hand over the wand in exchange for ten years of good health before she collects you," Ron said uneasily. "She says while the cloak protects you from the final death, it does not protect you against old age or…" Ron stumbled. "…or mental afflictions of the heart or head, now that she knows _who_ wears the cloak and it does not protect you from…"

Ron looked at the creature in anger.

"I wouldn't hurt him."

Grim turned its attention to him for the first time since she had appeared. Her frightening beauty a transfixing image, both repulsing him and pulling him in at the same time. The black claw like fingernails dragged across his heart and Ron felt himself gasping, collapsing onto the floor. He felt his magic spike and move inside of him without his consent. Grim locked her fingers with his own, interlacing them as she pulled his hand up.

"You don't have a choice," Grim told him.

Ron flinched as he felt light. Not sunlight or the light of a patronus, but Dumbledore's light. It was pleasant. Contradicting. Arrogant and humble in the same breath. It was…

"Stop it!" Ron shrieked, bulking backwards, trying to put distance between himself and Dumbledore who stared wide eyed clutching his chest.

"What is happening?" Dumbledore demanded, voice urgent and harsh as he spoke through his own pain. "Don't harm the boy. Let us speak before any actions are taken."

The pressure stopped. Ron snatched his hand to his chest, holding it against him as if it might betray him again at any moment. He felt more than saw Dumbledore fall to his knees in front of him, the man squeezing his shoulders before looking around wildly for the creature he could not see or hear.

The image of the soul in his hands, hovering there before the corpse inside the cage, blood slowly spilling from its edge caused Ron's breath to catch. He'd almost done it again. He'd almost killed someone else. His lungs squeezed inside his chest and he found he couldn't breathe. The claw like hand was reaching for him again, fur scattered along the half human form as it clutched him.

It was happening _again_.

"Ronald!" Ron's head shot up at the sound, trying to draw in air, to get away, but found his limbs held down by the body behind him and in front. "Look at me. Focus on my face and voice, my boy."

Ron forced himself to look up, only now realizing that he'd been staring at his lap, to see blues eyes graying at the edges offset in a face of wrinkles and white hair. It was so different from the black and red and brown of the night at the pond that Ron felt his breath come easier. He was afraid to move his hands, but he was more aware of where he was.

"My Vanguard are under my command," the Grim stated, the creature patiently waiting for Ron to repeat her words. Ron cringed, shuddering in Dumbledore's hold, obeying despite repeating them unsteadily. "My deal is this: Give me the wand peacefully and aide my Vanguard in collecting Riddle's broken soul. In exchange, I will grant you ten years of health. Should you refuse, my Vanguard will simply collect your soul this very night."

Ron didn't realize he was crying until he felt the tears sliding down his neck. A lengthy pause made his labored breathing sound far louder than it should and a part of Ron that wasn't filled with stark terror wondered at the calm that emanated off of the Headmaster.

"I accept, of course, as it would be foolish to purposefully welcome the ire of Death herself, but, if I may, ask one thing of you?"

"Speak your mind," Grim welcomed warmly, though coming from Ron's mouth, it sounded more like a stuttering command.

"Please, my lady," Dumbledore beseeched, "if I am to help Ronald in this task then it would benefit us both to know what his abilities entail and how to manage the consequences."

Ron didn't understand the words, but he repeated them as the Grim spoke them.

"Since their creation, each of the cursed have carried with them a story written in blood, twenty-seven souls and just over six hundred years of experience. Is that not enough for you?"

"I'm afraid I don't…"

"Are you sure?"

Ron watched, curious as Dumbledore slumped.

"The book."

The Grim simply nodded in confirmation.

"Yes," Ron spoke for her.

"Well then," the old Headmaster decided, "it looks as if that game I wanted to play is far more important than I thought."

Grim held out her hand. Ron mirrored hers and grimaced as Dumbledore seemed to be preparing himself for something. Then, the Elder wand was passed to his hand, there was an odd lift in the air. The Grim's black nails traced his skin almost fondly as her fingers entwined with his own directly over the wand.

For a moment, parts of the wand began to shimmer red, but Ron quickly realized the wand itself was burning from the _inside_. The wood smoldered before slowly turning to ash, though the heat did not burn him.

"Oh," Dumbledore sighed though Ron could feel the despair and longing emitting off of him in waves. Ron felt awful. A wand was something chosen specifically for you, it resonated with you, or so his parents said. To lose such an item must be terrible.

"I'm sorry," Ron told him sincerely.

"Don't be," but it wasn't Dumbledore who spoke, but the Grim. "It was a powerful gift, but I created it with the intent of destroying all those who wielded it. The wand may appear to aide the wielder in whatever they desire, matching whomever wins it, but the truth is that Albus Dumbledore lost his truest potential along with his last wand, which he gave up for power. Pity him, but do not hold regret in your heart."

"What is done is done," Dumbledore said quietly, unaware of the exchange or the way his words mirrored deaths. "We must move forward, always."

"Where is your old wand?" Ron asked.

Dumbledore paused, looking at Ron in surprise, but answered anyways.

"Long gone, lost in a battle against Grindelwald, I have used the Elder wand ever since."

"Oh."

Dumbledore waved it away, as if the loss were little more than a minor nuisance, and Ron had to wonder if the man was just so ingrained in acting that he could not stop or if, for a moment, he had truly forgotten that Ron could _feel_ his emotions. Either way, Ron let it slide, not saying a word.

"I believe it is time we played that game of chess."

* * *

The Ministry Christmas party is just as blusterous and foolhardy as Arthur imagined it would be. Navigating political waters had never been his forte and he finds himself drowning in the double innuendos and tones with layers he couldn't decipher. This was why he didn't feel comfortable moving out of his department. He was a straight forward type of person and these people moved in circles and zig zagged with ease and grace.

This was why he worked in the _Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Department_ , where the most complicated person around was Perkins, a little old man who lost his glasses more often than not and could never decide which cloak to wear to work. So far he'd been approached by three separate individuals, only one of which he recognized from the _Overview of Accidental Magics Department for Young Witches and Wizards._

It wasn't until Professor Saul Croaker approached, an Unspeakable in the _Department of Mysteries,_ that Arthur felt a lick of fear creep down his spine. Perkins, who'd taken to standing beside him in support after the first subtle interrogation, glanced at Arthur in panic.

"Maybe you should call it a night, Arthur, these people are right savage when they want to be…"

Arthur grimaced. His family was too spread out. Ginny was playing with the Lovegood's daughter with Molly nearby speaking with a few of the mothers from Percy's year. Penelope Clearwater's mother, if he wasn't mistaken. The twins were getting on with Cedric Diggory, debating which house they were going to sorted into soon. Charlie was flirting with a few girl's way on the other side of the Atrium and Percy had taken to a couple of older gentleman who were humoring his boy's questions.

They could leave, but it would be a production and leave the wrong impression, as if he were intimidated by his own coworkers. No. It was best to stay his ground and try his hand at the underhanded communication here. He would not turn tail and run simply because he was out of his depth.

"Arthur," Croaker greeted amicably. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. Bode's told me much about you."

"Bode is a good man," Arthur said stiffly, taking the hand offered him.

Croaker smiled, a genuine thing that had Arthur unwillingly relaxing his manner.

"I heard from upstairs that you've become the unfortunate obsession of our resident undersecretary," Croaker said sympathetically. "Its caused more than a few hackles to raise in the purebloods. Even Lucius Malfoy is keeping his child close in apprehension."

"Its been a while since the Ministry has employed such barbaric actions," Arthur said carefully, letting only a little of the venom he felt lace his voice.

"Just because a law has become looked down upon in current times does not mean its been repealed. There are a number of laws that give the Ministry dangerous power and it would be wise to take caution when going up against the likes of Umbridge. She knows all the unspoken laws and delights in employing them."

"Albus Dumbledore and Alastor Moody employ their own tactics and loopholes for the people they are allied with, the likes of Umbridge have little sway against such men," Arthur said pointedly.

"It is not just the Order that stands with you," Croaker told him, holding his hands up in submission. "Many of us within the Ministry think its an outrage to attempt to take a child because of their special abilities." Arthur tensed at the direct reference to Ron. "The Ministry tends to allow its obsession to wander into dangerous and unsavory areas few support especially in this day an age."

"Your department specializes in the study of the Ministry's obsessions," Arthur coolly replied.

"My department _regulates_ the Ministry's obsession. We ensure that they do not go too far," Croaker retorted. "We are intellectuals, Arthur, not savages. Children are to be protected not exploited."

"Too right," Perkins said hotly. "I've never seen such disreputable behavior by the Ministry in all my years. Going after a little boy…"

Arthur shot his assistant a look. His instincts were telling him this Croaker wasn't to be trusted, no matter how the conversation was going, and Arthur had learned to never dismiss his instincts. Croaker nodded, looking grim.

"It was a good decision not to bring Ronald here today. Umbridge has her spies about the party, watching you and your children and I fear they would have approached Ronald if he'd been here."

' _He almost had been,'_ Arthur thought, a touch unsettled.

"I hope," Croaker continued, "that the boy is handling things alright. I heard about what happened at St. Mungos. Fudge is undergoing a review by the Wizengamot for what he ordered those Healers to do. I can't imagine how shaken up and frightened he must have been when…"

"Ron is a strong kid," Arthur cut in. "He is handling everything well and his lessons are progressing as expected."

"That's reassuring to hear," Croaker nodded. "Still, if you need any help, don't be afraid to ask. I am a Professor, after all, and while I normally teach advanced measures of experimental magic, I can always make time for a young mind."

' _Not on your life,'_ Arthur thought fiercely.

"Thank you, I appreciate the offer."

Croaker smiled warmly once more, nodding as he steered away from the pair and back into the crowd.

"It's good to have an unspeakable on your side," Perkins said quietly. Arthur didn't argue. Perkins wasn't the type to take risks or to understand trusting instincts over the up front value. From across the room he caught Lucius Malfoy peering over at him. When their eyes met, the man's mouth twisted into a sneer. Arthur returned it, wrinkling his nose in disgust, but it was impossible not to notice the way Lucius was keeping Draco close by.

None of his children were prone to listen to warnings or to stick close to him. Arthur had been keeping an eye on them with an almost paranoid zeal, so while he despised the man, there was a part of him that understood the sentiment. He could see other parents were using the same protocol. Susan Bones had not left her Aunt's side since the party had started, despite how the young girl kept eyeing his boys enviously as they played tag with the other children. Neville Longbottom was sitting next to his Uncle quietly as the man talked boisterously to a group of men, clapping his hand a little too roughly on Neville's back every few minutes.

He wondered how Ron was doing at home. Suffering from his out of control magic still. He wondered if Charlie even realized the repercussions of what had happened. Arthur worked in a field that dealt with accidental and out of control magic and there were few cases as extreme as the one Ron had performed one after the other. His magic had responded instantly in both cases to Ron's extreme fear and that was a dangerous path to walk.

He had been immensely relieved when Dumbledore agreed to watch Ron tonight. He wasn't sure how much more his little boy could take. It had been a rough few months and Arthur, as much as he felt terrible about it, really needed a break. Though the party was proving more and more to be the complete opposite.

Umbridge was here.

And she was talking to Bill.

"I'm not cut out for this," Arthur muttered.

"You're doing much better than I would in your situation," Perkins told him, patting him on the shoulder sympathetically.

"Can you check on Percy while I go rescue Bill? It looks like Percy is getting ready to erect a shrine in Doge's name and the man doesn't know how to escape."

"Righty-o, Arthur, much more up my ally, that…"

Arthur gave him a grateful smile before hurriedly making his way over to his oldest son. Bill looked about ready to commit homicide and Arthur was a tad impressed that Umbridge had brought such emotions out in his normally laid back eldest.

"It's a simple question, William," Umbridge simpered, a self-inking quill hovering over her paper. "Yet your avoiding answering, which I find highly suspicious."

"I'm not avoiding answering anything. You're refusing to take the answer I've given you," Bill said through gritted teeth.

"Bill, there you are!" Arthur called, clapping his son on the shoulder. "You promised Fred and George that you'd show them the trick with the Ministry fountain and their getting quite anxious waiting for you."

'Thank you!' Bill mouthed.

"Oh no," Bill gasped. "I completely forgot. I hate disappointing them."

Bill shot off like a Firebolt and Arthur had to stop himself from cringing at his son's lack of ability to act in any way. No subtlety at all. Far too much like Arthur himself. Deception was not a trait that ran in the family and Arthur was torn between being exasperated and proud of that fact.

"Indeed," Umbridge said sourly. "A tendency towards avoiding questions about family. Fear of disobeying an order from the father figure." There was more scratching on her paper as she spoke and Arthur felt his own normally cool temperament flare at what she was suggesting. "I've noticed the absence of your youngest son tonight, Mr. Weasley, can this be taken as an indication of isolation in the home environment? Not a very good impression your giving to the Ministry of Magic."

"Neither has the Ministry impressed anyone here tonight," Arthur bit out. "I imagine that the Daily Prophet is covering Fudge's review and the misuse of power?" He gestured towards a young man with his own quill and paper, talking to Alastor Moody. "I'll make sure to mention your name when I'm approached."

Umbridge had stiffened, her chest popping out as she stood straighter and glared up at him, but she relaxed, an unnerving twitch of her lips forming that must have been her impression of a smile.

"The Ministry only seeks to help those families who do not have the financial resources to help themselves. Fudge and I are doing our best to ensure that every member of your… extensive family is being well taken care of. It is not uncommon in a family of so many children for one to be… neglected."

"None of my children have ever suffered from neglect," Arthur bristled, taking a calming breath. "Bill is undergoing training to be a curse breaker. Charlie is quidditch captain and prefect at Hogwarts. Percy has received top marks on all of his grades so far in his first year of school. All four of my younger children have been excelling in their basic education levels. They have shown talent and compassion in their every day lives and your desperate attempts to find otherwise has only demonstrated your own ineptitude. Bill and Charlie are both of age and are capable of defending themselves against your depraved tactics, but if I find you harassing any of my underage children I will press charges."

"Are you threatening the undersecretary of the Ministry of Magic, Mr. Weasley?" Umbridge asked coldly.

"No."

But it was not Arthur's voice who spoke. Both he and Umbridge turned to see Amelia Bones standing beside them, looking ever stern, eyes sharp as they landed on Dolores Umbridge.

"Arthur Weasley was in no way threatening you, Dolores, what he was doing was making his position firm in the defense of his family by reminding you of his rights as both a parent and as a Ministry official. Your actions of late have been much more questionable and it comes to my attention that Fudge may not be the only one in need of review."

The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement did not so much as flinch when Umbridge shot her a furious look, nor did she quiver when the much shorter pink clad woman marched passed her.

"You will find that I am well within my _power_ ," Umbridge hissed, "to investigate suggested child abuse in the home."

"It is not your department at all, actually," Amelia Bones responded, leveling her eyes at the shorter woman. "There is an entire branch dedicated to the protection of magical children and they have cleared Arthur and Molly Weasley of all suggestions of abuse or neglect. What you are doing as of now, is abuse of power in order to investigate a child's ability, which raises concerns for the motive behind such actions. If you are not careful, it will be more than the Wizangamot launching investigations."

"This isn't over," Umbridge told her sharply, disappearing into the crowd.

"Thank you, Amelia," Arthur told his old Hogwarts classmate. Amelia gave him a tight smile, nodding sharply. Her harsh features had only become more severe with age and there wasn't a foolhardy or warm touch about her. She was a business woman and lacked sympathy to a degree that made her the most ruthless Hufflepuff Arthur had ever met.

She did not linger or try to comfort him or give advice. She did not declare her support or make allies of Arthur. She did not make any mention of Ron or his family what so ever. She left. Making her way towards a group of Aurors and barking orders at them. _They_ were not here to enjoy the free alcohol or food. _They_ were on duty.

All of his instincts told him that she was trustworthy.

"Hello, Arthur!"

He turned, feeling the exhaustion settle in his bones. It was going to be a very long night indeed.

* * *

The Grim chose not to disappear, but instead slid into a form more comfortable for observation. In the form of a black Jack Russell terrier, the creature lounged next to the fire with its belly exposed, black eyes tilted lazily in their direction. This form was one Ron was much more familiar and comfortable with and knew that the creature would not bother to come over as it was simply interested in seeing how things played out.

Septimus Weasley's chess set gathered into position across the board.

"Then Right to Left!"

Ron ignored his rook, but Dumbledore stared intently at it, writing the words down on a piece of paper neatly spelling out 'Thursday' beside the rook's words. It clicked then.

"You know how to solve the riddle?" Ron asked eagerly.

The man nodded absently before pulling out something wrapped in a cloth. Gingerly, he set it down, pulling the cloth away, and Ron realized it was a book.

It looked dark. Like one of the pictures of cursed items or doorways Bill showed him when he was explaining his job as a curse breaker. A small shriveled hand clutching at a keyhole in the middle of the book. If he stared at it long enough, it seemed like the hand twitched, as if it were restless. The book looked bound by leather, though Ron suspected it was something more unpleasant, what with the way the hand seemed to be naturally attached rather than bound.

"I think you were much closer to solving it than you believe, Ronald. I don't think the chess set itself opens though. I think it is this book that belonged to your grandfather. It's a set."

Ron glanced from one object to the other and realized that it was true.

The chess set was not made of wood, but a black and light brown marble. Matching the skin and leather of the book perfectly. Ron had always thought his chess pieces looked a bit gothic, but next to the book they appeared far more ominous.

"The other day you told me that the Black King starts and finishes," Dumbledore said softly, gesturing to the board, Ron could feel his nervous energy in the man and it caused his own to build. When he was little, he'd dreamed of finding treasure or a wand or magical object inside of the chess set, but no matter how hard he'd tried, he couldn't figure out the puzzle. Now, seeing the book, the old thrill was back, but laced with a building dread. It was clear there would be no treasure or good magic hidden away inside that book.

"Yeah, he speaks on Monday and Sunday. The beginning and end of the week," Ron admitted. His King on the board looked unhappy, banging his staff onto the chess board, and glaring up at Dumbledore. They were normally encouraging and thrilled when Ron tried to figure out the puzzle. He'd never seen… no that wasn't true. They didn't like it when others were curious about their phrases either. Not even dad.

"And what does he say?" Dumbledore prodded.

Ron looked up from the angry pieces, even the knight, who usually mocked his King and blew raspberries, appeared upset. His Queen held her crown in her hands, eyes moving from Ron to Dumbledore worriedly. Asha and these Chess pieces were his closest friends and to see them so unsettled left a bad taste in Ron's mouth.

"On Monday's the King says 'It's in the Spine,'" Ron told him. "On Sundays though, he has a speech."

"A speech?"

"Damned souls repent Evermore. Grim tidings and hope fleeting, my deepest apologies my children, and children's children and all who come after. May our line die out and the damned be pitied," Ron recited easily before adding. "I don't think it's a clue though. All the other ones are always said super loud and clear, but on Sundays the King mumbles this very quietly. I always thought it was something else."

"You may be right. Let us continue though. Who speaks on Tuesdays?"

"The Queen, of course, she protects him, doesn't she? She always follows her King."

Dumbledore's lips quirked for but a second.

"And what does she say?"

"Center first." Ron picked up his black knight. The little figure pulled an unhappy face up at him, putting his finger to his lips in a motion of silence. Ron smiled apologetically. "Then the knight follows on Wednesday after his King and Queen. 'Start from left and continue forward until the end.'"

Ron pointed to the Castle piece, a tiny knight marching atop the Castles tower. It was always funny to see the Castle take another piece because it was the tiny bow and arrow the little man used that shattered his opponent. The knights were always complaining about how 'undignified' it was to be beaten by such a piece while the mini castle knight did a jig.

"Friday always states 'Ten keys," Ron mumbled.

"And what of Saturday?"

Ron picked up one of the black pawns and turned it over in his hands. These pieces had always been the hardest part of the puzzle. Ron had discovered the secret by accident. The last clue was not one pawn, but all of them. The pawns never said anything. They were simply pieces meant to be sacrificed or played to get to the other side so that they might be transformed into more useful pieces, but on Saturdays in the late evening, when the moon shined on them? They changed from black to a glimmering glass like state. Ron loved to wait until the moon was high in the sky to set his pawns out on his window sill.

"Saturday is Moonlight."

* * *

"That's all of them," Dumbledore said carefully, searching the list of days and statements for clues. If he assumed that the days of the week were indications for what order these statements should go in…

Monday- It's in the spine

Tuesday- Center first

Wednesday- Start from left and continue forward until the end

Thursday- Then right to left

Friday- Ten keys

Saturday- Moonlight

Dumbledore picked the book up, examining the twitching hand covering the center keyhole. Five fingers. One keyhole. He looked back down to his own handwriting, peering at Monday. _It's in the spine._

Dumbledore turned the book over so that he was looking at the dark clawed fingers that made up the books binding. There were ten of them.

"Halt Sir!" One of the chess pieces called angrily. Dumbledore looked down to see the black knight with its sword drawn. "You do not own those scriptures! Unhand them, you yellow bellied thief!"

"Shhhh," Ronald muttered, tapping the knights helmet gently. "He's helping."

"It is a time honored tradition for the owner to solve!" The knight protested.

"We've never had a Vanguard so young," The Black Queen intoned darkly, glancing at Ronald. "Stand down."

"Why do the white chess pieces not speak?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

"They do," Ronald said quickly, the none moving white pieces demonstrating quite the opposite. "They just don't like to be involved with outsiders. They're a little prudish."

The white Queen stamped her staff, throwing the boy a glare, before looking forward once more.

"No offense meant," Ronald added weakly before adding as an explanation. "This is an old set and so they're set in their ways."

"Oh? How old is it?"

"I know it once belonged to great grandma Sophie's own great grandfather," Ronald said with a shrug. Dumbledore's eyebrows went up as he tried to gouge just how many years back the set went then. If Sophie Weasley had been born in 1881 as he had been and it had belonged to her great grandfather… it made this chess set at least 200 years old. He eyed the set more wearily now, for the enchantments on the chess set to have lasted for so long… it was unheard of to use such powerful magic on objects like a game set. Books, most certainly, jewelry, unfortunately. But to perform magic on each individual piece? He would have to examine the runes for preservation crafted into the board and see if he could find the source of such rare and well maintained magic.

Dumbledore went back to examining the clawed spine, noting that there were runes too along the black claw like nails. Protection against fire, water, air, age, earth, force, elf magic, human magic, magical creatures, and rituals. It was designed to withstand time. The leather of the book appeared to be a thick hide from dragon or sphinx, if he were to guess. Creatures that were used to enduring the harshest of elements. Someone had taken great care when they had created this nasty piece of work.

If the ten claws were the keys then that meant they had to start with the two center pieces five and six along the spine. But start doing what? Did they need to tap it with a wand? Did Ronald need to do something? He peered over at the child who watched him with such expectation and hope. Milky white eyes eerie in the face of a child so young and with such wild red hair. And the black mark of Death on the eight-year-old's chest that seemed to pulse with a life of its own… it radiated dark intent.

Drat this foul situation.

Ronald finally trusted him and now he was having the hardest time trusting Ron. Well, the power that could apparently take over Ronald at Death's whim. He needed to focus. Nothing good came with dwelling on what could not be fixed.

"The chess pieces wanted me to figure out the puzzle by myself, maybe this is the part that requires me to do it alone?" Ronald said, reaching for the book. Dumbledore pulled it out of the boy's reach, watching in alarm as the hand on the cover reacted by reaching forward, fingers releasing its tight hold to make an opening for the keyhole where a needle lay ready to prick unsuspecting or foolish hands.

"Wait a moment, Ronald, let us not make haste when William has shown such measures of patients here, shall we? Books can be violent if opened the wrong way."

He set the book down and examining the ten claws gingerly touching the two center keys with runes for protection inscribed along the black nails.

"Center first," he murmured.

"Because you have to control the center," Ronald said automatically.

Dumbledore looked up.

"Control the center?" He asked, watching the boy carefully. Ronald reached over to his chest set and pointed to the center of the board.

"In order to control the game in chess, you have to make sure you have control of what's happening to the four squares in the center of the chess board. If you control the center, you control the situation," Ronald told him. "Having control of the center means being able to reposition, attack and defend much more easily than if the enemy gets ahold of it. The queen is the most powerful piece so it makes sense that she represents the most important rule of the game." Ronald shrugged, even as Dumbledore eyed the set carefully with new respect.

So the chess set was a puzzle, a set of answers, and a set of lessons for Ronald. In order to be able to tackle the curse, one first immerse themselves in the strategic game of chess, learning how to handle a variety of situations and react quickly. Thinking each move through before either attacking or defending. He wondered which Weasley in the past had the foresight to make this a prerequisite of opening the book. He would have liked to meet them.

And the very first move was a clear warning to the reader that allowing this book to fall into another's hands was essentially handing over 'the center.'

"And what of Wednesday's warning then?" Dumbledore probed. "Start from Left and continue forward until the end?"

"Well," Ronald said carefully. "I always figured it was the Knights duty to protect the King and Queen 'until the end,' so it makes sense that after the center has been taken successfully, the knight would move forward until he was either taken or had defeated the enemies."

Ronald leaned forward and picked up the rook piece eyeing it in irritation as the tiny figures on top of the castle protested being jostled so.

"I've never understood Thursday though, because a rook can move right to left, but they are way more powerful _behind_ the pawns to ward off having them taken. I always figured that since it's the last order to move it was meant to be the last defense, or the last step in the puzzle."

Ronald put the castle back onto the board, pointing to the bishop.

"But then why doesn't the Bishop or the pawns have a move? Why would the King talk about place, the Bishop talk about the number, and the pawn about the time? The only thing significant about Bishops and pawns is that the pawns can restrict bishops in their placement, which means that the numbers are restricted by the time?"

"And if the number ten are the claws along the spine…" Dumbledore said thoughtfully, then perhaps they can only be opened at a certain time… at night when there is moonlight…"

Opened. If there were ten keys instead of one then the key in the center of the book was a ruse to mislead where the _real_ blood seal was located. And if the seal was in the spine then the book opened up backwards. The large hand clutching the book was the true spine rather than what allowed it to be unsealed and opened. A red herring.

"I believe it would be best to take this outside into the moonlight."

An odd reaction from the book occurred the moment they made their way outside, placing the book into the direct focus of the moonlight. The fingers along the spine twitched, not moving, but the fingernails… With a sickening squelch noise they pulled up from the skin and erected themselves upwards in a similar fashion to the needle in the center. The ominous display made more so by the retraction of the red herring keyhole. A rune against intruders appearing in dark markings in its place.

On either side of the hand keeping the book bound across its pseudo opening, a series of thick black threads appeared in the moonlight, revealing the rest of the hidden bindings for the real spine. White runes inscribed along the black thread glowing with magic. The gift the Weasley's were demonstrating with runes with both the chess set and the book were quickly turning into something of a historical marvel for Dumbledore and he just as quickly decided that Ronald would have little choice when he made it to Hogwarts in extracurricular activities because Dumbledore himself would be signing him up for Ancient Runes.

"I tried to bring the chess set out into the moonlight once… to see if it would do anything…" Ronald said in awe. "The white pieces glowed and the black pieces cast shadows, but that was it. They didn't change or anything."

"It still might mean something," Dumbledore murmured. "We just haven't figured it out yet."

"I have to touch those, don't I?" Ron moaned, meaning the sharp black fingernails.

"It appears so, but it would be best to…" He was interrupted by Ronald leaning forward and very quickly stabbing his finger on the center left black nail. "Ronald!"

The child looked unapologetic as he watched the black nail slowly turn red with his blood. There was a hissing sound and then… the single fingered spine released from its hold on the book.

"If everybody keeps protecting me, I'll never learn how to protect myself," Ronald told him sternly.

"Caution should always be taken with dark objects, Ronald," Dumbledore reprimanded.

"I practically am a dark object," Ronald muttered. "And why do you keep repeating my name? It hasn't changed since you said it five minutes ago."

"I'm used to speaking to a classroom full of students. I haven't taught one on one in many years."

"Who was your last student?" Ronald asked curiously, stabbing his finger on the sixth spine without hesitation. Dumbledore cringed as he watched the thing slowly unlatch, holding back from telling Ronald the combination. The boy had been hearing the words for years and knew it better than he did. Moving left to right from the seventh to the tenth, all the way to the end. Blood dripped in a steady stream from Ronald's abused fingers, but the boy, caught up in his desire to finish the puzzle alluding him for so long, seemed oblivious.

It was difficult in that moment to decide whether the boy was acting more like a Gryffindor or a Ravenclaw, but certainly no trait at all of a Slytherine's self-preservation. Ronald paused for only a second, six of the ten keys to the book now lying open and red tipped. The boy moved to the other end where the spine began, eyeing the first four keys and starting over from right to left.

As the last fingernail filled with Ronald's blood turning all ten black blood seals red, the book began to open backwards, as Dumbledore had predicted, the thickness of the book expanding to something of a tomb upon its unsealing.

They were interrupted from exploring the pages though, when Ronald's head shot up to stare at something in front of them. He could not see what the child saw and could only assume that the Grim had become unsettled or active at the act.

"She wants to give me something to congratulate me on solving the puzzle Sigan Weasley crafted," Ronald told him, standing.

Dumbledore held him back though, looking in the general vicinity Ronald was gazing.

"And what sort of 'gift' is this?" He demanded.

"What is a historian without a means to write?" Ronald repeated immediately. "Who will learn of horrors and heroes if such tales cannot be spoken" The boy paused, frowning. "I like puzzles, not riddles."

"A quill?" Dumbledore queried. "A special one, I take it?"

"Grim gestured towards the book," Ronald whispered helpfully.

Dumbledore glanced at the pages within and immediately recognized what sort of quill would be required for this sort of dark book. The letters were in a deep red. The same color that now filled the seals.

"A blood quill?" He asked coldly.

Ronald glanced at him curiously before apparently hearing the Grim speak for his head shot up and he took a step forward without hesitation. Dumbledore went to pull him back, but the milky eyes gazed at him sharply.

"We've come this far," Ronald intoned wearily. "What's one more step?"

' _That's a very dangerous line of thought to keep.'_

But Dumbledore withdrew his hand, because he'd lived with those very sort of thoughts most of his life and had only refused to take those steps a hand full of them.

Still.

He watched, wearily, as the eight-year-old held out his hand expectantly, looking towards a being whom Dumbledore could not see and, who he suspected, he did not want to see. Then, as if out of thin air, a black tar like substance appeared upon Ronald's arm. Before Dumbledore could stop it, it sunk into Ronald's skin!

His heart leaped into his chest, but Ronald remained calm, as if nothing terrible were happening at all. For a few moments, nothing at all happened, but when the black tar pooled upon the surface of Ronald's skin once more, it dragged something to the surface.

"Godric have mercy," he murmured.

Dumbledore sat stricken by the sight of _bone_ , but Ronald simply plucked the thin piece from the tar upon his skin, holding it up to the light of the room. Feeling faint, Dumbledore examined the bone to see that it was in the shape of a quill. At its tip, a deep red ink shined.

"The Grim says I'm the only one who can write with it," Ronald told him lightly.

"Somehow, I suspected as much," Dumbledore murmured, feeling queasy all of a sudden. "I fear that our friendship is not good for my heart, Ronald."

Ronald turned quite forlorn at this declaration.

"Is it because she forced you into that deal?" Ronald whispered guiltily. "And broke your wand."

"It is more in the way she plays with nature itself as if it were clay," Dumbledore admitted. At Ronald's blank look, he couldn't help but chuckle. "I suppose for a child who has been able to see the Grim since birth, you are used to observing events mortals are not normally privy to."

"She is Death," Ronald said with a shrug. "I try not to look at her when she's hanging around. Uncle Bilius always told me it only encourages her."

"Did he now?" Dumbledore said faintly, shuddering at the idea of such a figure following anyone around for any period of time, never mind ones whole life. "So your Uncle was capable of seeing him as well?"

"No one believed him when he talked about the Grim," Ronald told him quietly. "They thought he'd lost his mind."

"It is a rather… extreme concept to accept."

Ronald nodded, as if he understood completely.

"Death can be nice," Ronald confessed, "and something like that… it makes you think about if Life can be mean… well, obviously." Ronald's laugh was bitter as he cut himself off, a tad hysterical, and Dumbledore realized the child understood exactly what Dumbledore spoke of. "It makes you wonder if all the stuff that happens has a form like the Grim."

"Indeed, it does," Dumbledore agreed.

"It makes you realize that the world is a lot more complicated than anyone can really imagine," Ronald continued, "that no matter how much you learn, you're never gonna get close to really understanding any of it."

"Wise words from one so young."

"Well," Ronald hesitated, "I can't tell anyone about the Grim, not unless I want to end up like Uncle Bilius, you know?" He shrugged, looking lost and so alone that Dumbledore's heart ached for the child. How incredible he was for facing all of this by himself for so long. "I can't really talk about all the stuff I see and hear and it all gets muddled inside until it feels like a pit."

"We'll, you are always welcome to call upon me if the need arises. I enjoy talking about all manners of things and this one is as fascinating as it is frightening."

Ronald smiled gratefully

Ronald's eyes became distant, his gaze looking at something Dumbledore could not see. It made the milky whites more frightening.

"What is she saying?" Dumbledore asked.

"The contract will be broached if anything I tell you is spoken out loud to another living soul," Ronald told him uneasily. "But she agrees that the human mind does not…" Ronald made a face. "What does that even _mean_?"

Ronald paused, scowling.

"I'm not a messenger boy. If you're telling him something that you want me to repeat then I want to be able to at least understand what the bloody hell you're on about."

Ronald used the freshly created blood quill as a pointer, stabbing it in the direction of the window as he lectured Death on the art of communication. Leaving Dumbledore off kilter.

"If you can't be clear, then I'll not speak for you, force me all you like! If I can't pronounce it then best of luck!"

Dumbledore had the distinct impression he was listening to Molly Weasley.

"Ronald," he said carefully, trying to remind the child that he could not partake in this… odd conversation. Milky eyes glanced at him and the Professor had the urge to ask why his eyes had changed so suddenly and if they were going to return to their natural state any time soon. He resisted, reminding himself that it was not the time or place for such questions.

"Right, well, as long as you don't speak about… con-fiden-sheel? Confidential matters of the inner workings of… the taking of life…" Ronald's face went blank. "Just don't repeat anything I tell you."

"I don't believe it would be beneficial for anyone to know such things anyways," Dumbledore said, his lips twitching.

"Good," Ronald said, relieved. "And can you call me, Ron? Mum only uses my full name when she wants to order me about or when I'm in trouble."

"Now that we've sold our souls to Death," Dumbledore said lightly. "We should see what the contract says."

"I didn't sell anything," Ronald pointed out, "I was born like this."

None-the-less, the boy opened the book to the first page. Written upon this first page in red that still glistened as if wet, was a familiar set of lines.

"The Black King," Ronald whispered.

 **Damned souls repent Evermore.**

 **Grim tidings and hope fleeting,**

 **my deepest apologies my children,**

 **and children's children and all who come after.**

 **May our line die out and the damned be pitied.**

-Gage Weasley

Dumbledore held his breath as the page was turned once more.


	7. Chapter 7: Tale of the Three Brothers

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

* * *

Chapter 7: The Tale of the Three Brothers

"There were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight midnight."

It was so much worse than anything Ron could have imagined.

A Vanguard was a hunter who was chosen by Death itself. Death, like culture, existed separately among each continent and chose its Vanguard from those that sought to break the boundaries between life and death. It was a punishment and warning to those who trifled with matters beyond human understanding.

 _We are warriors, my brothers and I, and we sought to take down the Blacks once and for all. We sought to rip the souls from ones body, to increase our own magic through the destruction and harvest of others magic. We sought to cause misery upon the home and lives of those who'd caused our own suffering. Drenching them in eternal hell and darkness, taking all that makes them happy, making them live with the knowledge that they would never be happy again._

 _Instead we summoned the Grim._

 _Or rather, we captured the Grim, unintentionally, in a set of chains created from our experimentation with dark magic. We knew not what we were doing and foolishly believed we could garner trinkets from the beast. We should have released it and ran for our lives. We should have graveled and pleaded to be spared._

 _Instead we tried to bargain with a god._

 _We demanded prizes for our deeds; an unbeatable wand for Thomas, my youngest brother, and a stone for my grieving brother Johannes who'd recently lost his wife. For myself, I sought neither power nor past, but rather, a means to hide from this creature. I knew, even then, what a foolish deed we were performing, but like a coward said nothing. It gave us our prizes and while my brothers lingered, I fled._

 _The creatures found my brothers first. Shortly after it had freed itself, the Grim lured by brothers into its hands with a congratulations and a promise for more. The creature gave us all that we'd ever wanted in a form we could not have come up with even in our darkest nightmares. The ability to take souls. The ability to darken a person until there is nothing in their lives but their worst memories and fears. The ability to cause misery the like that no human has seen before._

 _It has been years now and I hear the name my brothers have been given. It is as ominous and horrifying as what they became, for they lack all humanity now. They lack all emotions and love and instead seek only what their abilities can grant them. The dark rotting hearts beating in their chests have manifested on the outside, corpses cloaked in Deaths loving shawl. Those ignorant of their origins call these monsters Dementors._

Gage Weasley had told only part of his story to a man whose surname had been Beedle. The story of the Three Brothers wasn't a story at all and Ron was living in the consequences of actions taken over six hundred years ago.

 _When I ran- I wore the cloak every day of my life until my eldest child was old enough not to drown in its length. I had been given a reprieve for years and believed that when the Grim came for me, I would simply die at its hands and it would end. My brothers would fade away and time would forget their deserved tragedy._

 _I was wrong._

 _When the Grim found me, its rage was staggering, and I could do nothing but quake. Instead of death, I became an apprentice of death- of sorts. A Vanguard. It would have been penance for my crimes and greed and I would have accepted the sentence with open arms except…_

 _As long as the Hallows exist in this world, my family will continue to inherit the position of Vanguard. Our foolish deeds have caused such devastation and grief. I have told my sons to never have children, but my oldest has already disappeared into the world with his mother._

 _Death, at least, has promised me that this book will always find its way into the hands of her next chosen, so perhaps when I have passed, there might be a chance for the line to end and this nightmare to cease, though I fear for the souls of my brothers and what may become of them if we cannot break it within my lifetime._

Still exhausted from the cold he had, Ron fell asleep with his head resting on Dumbledore's knee, the moonlight their only light within the living room. The special wards had be lowered to allow for strips of it to pull over the pages.

* * *

It was not long after that Arthur and the rest of the Weasley clan arrived and found them there.

The book was written in blood. Arthur and Molly had tried to put Ron to bed, but the moment Ron was removed from the vicinity of the book, even in moonlight, the pages faded to blank.

"Why don't you read it first?" Molly urged him. "For a little while at least. He doesn't have a fever, but I don't want to push our luck. He needs to be in bed soon no matter what you read."

Arthur had nodded, tucking Ron against him, his son curled in his lap, head laying on Arthur's chest. Ron didn't stir, and he guessed that all the excitement of the evening had tuckered his sick son out. Ron's magic pulled around them, making him feel uneasy and the beginnings of a dark brooding mood coming on, so unlike himself who tended to prefer things simple. Most things were only complicated if one made them complicated.

The cheer charms were holding off the worst of it though.

He had five or six shoved in his pockets. There had been daydreams and cheer charms and magic sparks being given away and he'd thought… we'll it had worked well enough for this brother, didn't it? If it helped Bilius appear normal then who was to say it wouldn't help Arthur be close to his child?

He dragged his fingers through Ron's hair, listening to his child's breath hitch from congestion in the lungs, dark circles under his eyes from the nightmares and night owl routine, small fingers clutching subconsciously at his chest.

"It's going to be okay," Arthur whispered, kissing Ron on the forehead.

He looked down at the book and with a heavy sigh, started forward.

Flipping through the pages from back to front, he felt his heart sink as a pattern emerged in the light of the moon. Dark red letters spelling out a tale that grew steadily more hopeless and horrifying with the end of each person's life. Beginning with his own brother, with his own father… and spreading backwards in time.

Billius Weasley- 1958 to 1986

Septimus Weasley- 1936 to 1983

Sophie Weasley- 1881 to 1936

Cane Weasley- 1863 to 1880

Brenard Weasley- 1841-1862

Rose Weasley- 1828-1839

Back and back it went until Arthur found himself on the first page. Here it was different though. On the first page there was no writing except for three names in a row and the description besides these men was different from all those that came before.

Gage Weasley- Born 1341, condemned 1383

Johannas Weasley- Born 1345, condemned 1383

Thomas Weasley- Born 1355, the first Vanguard 1383

With shaking fingers, Arthur turned to the first page. Despite the age, the pages and writing were still fresh. A blood quill had obviously been used and Arthur frowned at the evidence of dark magic his ancestors demonstrated. He'd known, of course, everything about this curse wreaked of dark magic, but he'd hoped…

 _Gage Weasley, summer of 1383_

 _Whatever time you may come across this, if these notes are being read, then know this: We have condemned you to a fate worse than death. I do not ask your forgiveness. We do not deserve it._

Arthur glanced at his sleeping son in his lap. His eight-year-old boy was curled up, face flushed with fever, fingers touching the page so that Arthur could read this book. Ron trusted him fully. He brushed Ron's hair out of his face, thumbing the dark bruises under his eyes from nightmares and sleep deprivation.

For Ron.

 _My brothers and I sought to experiment with death and so death came for us instead. It is with a heavy heart that I relate all that has conspired in these last few years. I will not leave anything out for to do so would be a further betrayal, not only to our family who we have condemned, but to any in the future who would seek to play with forces beyond their power. Our motivations, while wrong- filled with greed and lust and weakness, are as full of foully as any young individual with dreams._

 _Our sister is with child and already I know the poor soul carries within it our curse, for it is not passed down through blood. It is a touch from Death itself who chooses with knowledge we cannot comprehend. Death, who is not a concept or an end, but a presence that makes up the fabric of this world. Death exists in every individual and yet is its own sort of… no, Death walks among us just as you or I would, able to gift the past and the present, able to create objects in the human plain, with the ease of a god._

 _Death is a presence that experiences anger and pleasure and which holds grudges and takes vengeance in the same manner humans do. It represents all of our darkest emotions just as Life, I presume in arrogance, holds all of our dearest and most treasured emotions. I realize I am rambling and making little sense to you… it would be best to start from the beginning rather than deliver this diatribe of manic grief and terror upon you._

 _It all began when my brother's wife was murdered by Charlotte Black. We started to experiment with dark magic, intending to reverse the effects of death itself… and to gain revenge for the horrors we believed had been done upon us._

Arthur read long into the night with an ever-growing weight settling on his heart. When he noticed the moon in its last moments of the night, he skipped to the later entries, finding Bilius's work easily. Out of all the accounts of the dozens within the bound book, Billius's was the shortest, spanning only a few pages in the book. It was a simple letter addressed to Ron.

 _Ronnie_

 _I hoped I would never have to write in this bloody book, but the final gift is coming upon me fast and I fear that time is quickly fleeing. I'm so sorry for all the misunderstandings and the hurt I've caused you. I tried to break the curse during the war, but I failed. I hoped that Arthur, your father, would succeed where I could not. He was marrying a Prewett, you see, and we all believed the Prewett's were the key…_

* * *

His dad wouldn't look at him. The book's pages were blank now that the moon had set and the sun had risen and Ron was reeling from the few truths he'd been given. And his dad wouldn't look at him. Ron had started out asking questions in curiosity, but his words started to take on a panicked tone the longer his dad kept quiet. And his dad wouldn't _look_ at him.

Ron traced the frightening looking spine fingers and the twitching hand that kept the book together with a bright blue magical set of stitching along the opposite side. Threads that only appeared in the moonlight but which Ron could feel now, invisible to the eye. The book that opened backwards and could only be read in the light of the moon was pretty wicked cool, not that he would say as much to his family who seemed to look at it as if the thing was going to spontaneous explode and kill them all.

His dad had read what was inside.

Now he went about the house, helping their mum tidy, picking up his random muggle tools and his head jerking in another direction every time he accidentally turned in Ron's direction. His dad looked like the muggle scarecrow he'd had an obsession with a few Halloweens ago. Stitched together and limbs moving only when the wind blew too hard.

Vanguard.

Ron liked that he had a name for it now. Not even a very scary name. It sounded sort of like a knight or a protector of some kind. It meant neither, obviously, but it felt nice. Nothing like Dementor- Ron shuddered. His dad wasn't too keen to talk about any of it though and even though mum had asked a dozen times, voice turning angry late this afternoon, Arthur had still refused to speak about it.

'Shock,' was the word Bill used.

And Percy, being far more familiar with complicated words and more willing to use them, had coined a different word entirely.

'Devastated.'

It sounded far more accurate to Ron who decided that his chair in the living room was far too close to people for him to be using at the moment. He'd scurried upstairs and looking once more at his dad who refused to look at him, disappeared into his room.

A sniffled enough that Ron though he'd burst into tears, but he kept it at bay by pulling out his story books and reading _The Fountain of Fair Fortune_ out loud to Asha. Her wing was still broken and his words were wobbly, but between the two of them, they turned away all topics of bother and darkness to only good things.

He told Asha how the scary book was an over glorified diary and about the gift from Grim, making sure to stay as far away from the bad stuff as possible. Mainly the threat on Dumbledore's life and the story of what his ancestors had become.

He had yet to show his family the quill Grim had given him, made from its own bones. Dumbledore had called it a blood quill and had seemed shaken when it had appeared. Ron wasn't entirely sure why though. She'd laid bare her own arm against his arm for a moment. The touch like frost. Then her bone had come out, so close to his skin he could feel it. As the tar sunk into his skin and dug into his flesh he could sense his blood coming loose from his veins. Slipping from his pours and sliding into place inside of the bone. The black mark of Grim forming where his blood had entered the quill.

It would be best if Ron kept that to himself though.

"Do you think that dad hates me now?" Ron asked.

Asha made a noise that was disapproving.

"There's no need to jump to conclusions, dearie," Asha chirped. "Perhaps you're not looking your best, but that no reason for your father to hate you."

Ron rubbed at his nose, feeling overly hot and sticky, but managing to roll his eyes anyways.

"I don't think he hates me for how I _look_. We're all pasty red heads and that's normal for us." Ron paused, pressing his hand against his heart. He wondered if they opened his chest up if it would be red or black. What if his heart was as rotten and useless as the wizard that tried to play with dark magic to stop himself from feeling love? Ron still loved though. Would it look like the Grim's tar like stuff instead?

Ron nestled against his pillows. A Vanguard was a hunter, but what did it mean to hunt those who ran from Death? That didn't sound pleasant all. Would ever time feel like this one? Holding Dumbledore's life in his hands as the Grim used him?

Could Ron make a deal with Grim to only hunt bad people? Then again, Ron really hadn't liked killing Peter Pettigrew and that man was as bad as they got. Hopefully. He couldn't imagine worse people than a man like Peter. Betraying his friends like he had. Working as a Death Eater. Then there was that awful thing Peter had talked to.

Voldemort.

He really, really, really hoped that he never had to hunt _that_ thing. The red eyes boring into him had left a lasting impression that what this thing used to be might have been human, but what it was now was only a monster.

"He doesn't hate you in any way," Asha chirped. Ron blinked at her, having forgot in his moment of silence that they'd been talking at all. "Good grief in a handbasket… its clear to anyone with eyes that he adores you to bits, pumpkin."

Ron touched his red hair, scowling at the bird.

"Not that nickname then? Oh well, I'll find something suitable."

"There's no need for a nickname at all."

"Well, you're not fond of me when I call you Ronald, which is your name, and I always want you to be fond of me," Asha rattled off. "But Ron is far too… I do not like it. You require something more… more."

"Well, pumpkin is too much wrong in one word," Ron muttered, fighting sleep. He felt heavy and was very glad he'd used the bathroom beforehand because if he'd only just thought of it, he might not have been capable of getting up to… erm, attend to important matters.

"Ohhhh, what about Sir Luckless?"

"How about no?" Ron groaned.

"You are a knight though," Asha protested. "It is befitting that you should be the knight from the very story you chose my name!"

"I'm not a knight," Ron said, strangely flattered.

"The kindest knight I know," Asha told him.

"You only know, like… ten people."

"And you are the best out of ten!"

Ron laughed, but the sound wheezed a bit coming out.

"And you are the most beautiful mirror bird I have ever seen," Ron told her.

Asha clucked, preening her one good wing up from her now permanent shelf by his bed.

"You bet my feathered booty I am. Where would you be without me?"

"Somewhere very lonely," Ron said thoughtfully, finally giving into sleep.

* * *

The Prewetts had a special kind of light to them. Billius knew this because just being in their presence hurt. He wasn't sure what the power was or where it came from, but it filled him with hope. Maybe, just maybe, the Prewtt blood would be able to neutralize the curse residing in the Weasley blood. So they theorized.

As Bilius was the brother to inherit the Weasley curse, he'd long ago resigned himself to never having children and certainly never marrying. His father was a fool for doing so, as was his father's mother and his great grandmother and… we'll, the point was gotten, wasn't it? The Weasley's should have ended their blood line the moment they'd been foolish enough to create the curse in the first place.

Hot blooded fools.

He and his father had high hopes for Arthur. The man was… bright. Capable of performing the patronus, a feet no Weasley had been able to do in generations. Maybe the blood had thinned over time. Maybe the curse wasn't able to be passed down through him. Still… As he and Molly continued to pop out one kid after another, Billius cringed.

Talk about tempting the fates.

He tried to talk to Arthur about it, to discourage him, but the whole of the wizarding world was trying to do the same. Not for the same reasons. They ridiculed Arthur for having more kids than he could take care of. They whispered in the hallways of the Ministry. Dark talk, rumors, whispering behind their backs. His brother, with his upbeat attitude and big heart and stubbornness, carried on. He had a lot of love to go around and seemed intent on making use of every drop of it.

It didn't help that the Prewett twins seemed bound and determined to be free babysitters, overjoyed to have their nephews with them. They were truly incorrigible. Spoiling the kids, telling them stories, winding them up and tuckering them out.

It was all one big happy family.

Ignore the terrible curse hanging over our heads!

It wasn't Arthur's fault though. Bilius and his father had done everything in their power to make sure Arthur wasn't aware of the family curse. Mother had disagreed with their decision. She'd said Arthur needed to know. It was his right.

To resign himself to misery though? Especially with such high hopes riding on his little brother's shoulders? Curse breaker, they called him, end of the line, they whispered. Their brother Phillip had been born a squib. Aunt Riley had never had children. Uncle Richard had a muggle son, an accountant now?

Bilius was the deadly child. He was the carrier. The one who would never be capable of performing a patronus. The one who could never bear children for fear of passing it down. There was no reason for Arthur to be burdened with either Bilius dark curse or the expectations heaped upon his unknowing shoulders.

Bright Arthur would light the way to a glorious future.

When father… died, or rather, as close to died as he could, they had burned his body and hunted the rest until there was no trace of his existence. It was the least they could do. Binding and burning his soul was the most merciful act they could perform and the best means of destroying the creatures known as dementors. He'd told Arthur that their dad had killed himself. It was easier to explain than the mad screaming of the Grim coming for him as Septimus fell into madness. Of his descent into becoming _it._

The final gift of the Grim indeed.

It was how more than one Weasley had gone down the dark path. Trying to evade their own death, ignoring the contracts demands in order to pursue their own need to survive. Always realizing too late that trying to use the vision of their own death to save themselves always ended by them walking straight into it.

It was the most horrific experience of his life.

He was sixteen when he'd witnessed his first death. He'd escorted their grandfather to St. Mungo's for an annual check up when one of the ancient witches sitting next to them had fallen to the floor. A seizure. The old woman had cracked her head, flopped around on the floor of all of ten seconds, and was gone.

Too fast for him or any of the Healers to do a damn thing about it.

He and his grandfather had both left shaken and sick, but it was only Bilius that had left changed. He came into the full extent of the curse and by the end of the week had received his gift. His father had been furious, ranting and raving at the Grim that Bilius was too young, accusing the creature of purposefully killing the witch before it was her rightful time.

The Grim had been unapologetic.

"War is coming," Grim had stated casually, "you are aging, and your death is near."

His father had gone quiet at that.

Bilius had been too overwhelmed by it all. Seeing his own death in the asylum. How young he was and that it was the Grim itself killing him so directly in her fury. He was determined to prove to her that he would not disobey. He would not look to change his future. He would accept it. He would try to break the curse, but he would do every job she asked without question.

And he did.

Bilius was her perfect soldier.

He hunted down all those who used dark magic to avoid death. The Grim was its own force of nature. It easily killed all those on its list as if checking off boxes. Bilius never had to deal with killing the innocent. It was only those who tried to destroy the natural order of things, who sought to twist nature to their control, who Bilius took down.

That was the worst part.

Bilius had to take human light in order to survive. The Weasley's were killers by nature. Only marginally better than the monsters they became when one of the cursed displeased Grim. His father had acted as a guard in Azkaban, watching over their cursed family members, but also takin the lives of prisoners when he needed to.

Grandma Sophie had been an Auror back in the day when it was more acceptable to simply kill criminals that ran rather than bring them in for a trial. No one ever questioned her. The farther back it went, the more devious his little pureblood family had been.

Arthur would be different though.

Bilius could feel it in his bones.

Arthur had given them all a good scare, announcing at the tender age of nineteen the impending arrival of his first son. The family had been in a tizzy, whispering and muttering and hoping and dreading the child's arrival.

It was decided that Billius would be the tester. As a curse holder, he would know instantly if the child carried the Weasley curse or if he possessed the Prewett light. It had set his nerves on edge, enough that he'd been sick the last two weeks of Molly's pregnancy. Lost ten pounds off his frame like it was nothing.

He'd stalled in the delivery wing. He let Fabien and Gideon cuddle and coo at the baby for nearly an hour, not offering once to hold the babe. Then, finally, it was time. Baby William looked up at him with such bright eyes, flaming red hair already a mop atop his tiny little head, a gummy smile on his lips.

Bilius had taken him into his arms… and it had hurt. Such light! Such wonderful, magical light! Definitely a Prewitt. Bilius grinned, staring down proudly at his nephew. Beautiful, healthy, not cursed baby William. He spun the babe around, bobbing him up and down, the feel burning at his skin just the smallest bit.

And it was delightful.

"Helloooooooooo," Bilius cooed. "Welcome. Welcome."

Arthur beamed at him, his little brother practically falling to pieces in relief as he stood over his sleeping wife. His little shit of a brother did it. He broke the curse. He ended the Weasley misfortune.

Then Arthur just kept on going…

Charlie frowned at him. Puckered lips and watering eyes every time Billius so much as glanced in the babe's direction. But he burned him too. Another Prewitt legacy.

Percy looked more like a prune than a new born. Content to hold Bilius's finger and keep it near his little chest. Prewitt.

The twins had been nerve wracking. A difficult birth. Rare in the magical world to even exist. They had made him especially nervous, because wasn't it just like twins for one to go one way and the other another? But no. They were identical not just in looks, but also in magic. Prewitts, the both of them, lovely light burning away.

As toddlers the two twins light seemed to bounce off of one another, growing into something magnificent. He loved it. They would be powerful wizards, there was no doubt about it, capable of performing whatever magic their little hearts desired. Barely a year old and they'd already performed their first accidental magic.

And then Ron had come.

He'd been a fool to think it had ended. That there was no chance of the curse existing as long as Bilius refrained from having children. He'd become complacent in his love for his brother's children. He'd so happily taken Ronald into his arms.

And felt nothing.

No pain, no hurt, no light.

Ronald looked up at him, big blue eyes blinking slowly, his little fist stretching out and tiny fingers reaching for him. No light. Not a flicker of the burn he always felt with the other children. Ronald's tiny fingers touched him and he felt it. The familiar _thing_ inside. The creature of his nightmares. The bane of his existence.

Ronald was cursed.

Ronald was just like him.

No, no, no. Not this little babe. Not this innocent little face. Not these big blue eyes.

"What's wrong?" Arthur demanded, frightened. He found baby Ronald taken from him, Arthur checking the baby over. His little brother glanced up at him in expectation, fear lining his features, questions in his eyes.

Staring at the babe, Bilius knew that he would have to tell Arthur now, he would have to burden his little brother with the terrible Weasley secret. Because Arthur wasn't the curse breaker they'd made him out to be. Arthur still carried the curse, even if he didn't have it himself.

But he couldn't do it tonight. Couldn't face his brother on the night of his child's birth to tell him that Ronald would die young. That his child would cause misery wherever he went. That Ronald would soon never be able to touch another person without causing them harm.

"Nothing's wrong Arthur, just thinking about something dad said once," Bilius said shakily. He couldn't look his brother in the eye. Instead of spilling everything. Instead of ruining this otherwise wonderful night. Bilius lied. "I've been here too long. I think it's time I head out. Paperwork won't fill itself out."

It was a poor excuse. He knew. Fabien scowled at him, the normally cheerful man giving him the once over.

"Don't be a git," Fabien snapped at him. Gesturing to baby Ronald, cooing up at them from Arthur's arms. "The babes just popped out, sorry Molls, wrong term." He apologized to his sleeping sister. "Besides, you promised you'd help watch the kids these next few days."

They were all with Aunt Muriel at the moment. Poor souls.

Bilius struggled to say something. His mind full of the sight of his father, black bones contorting as his soul slithered around them, consumed, changing from the light blue tinged black soul to full black.

If Arthur and Molly had just stopped having so many kids… if they'd stopped tempting fate…

"Well then, perhaps they should have figured out that five kids is more than plenty to take care of," Bilius muttered.

He regretted it instantly. It was his fault for not telling Arthur. For putting so much hope in the fact that Arthur might break the curse. That the children were safe from it.

"What did you say?" Gideon growled at him, eyes blazing.

"I think leaving would be a good idea," Arthur cut in. His little brother was pleading with him, silently, asking him what was wrong with only the sheer force of his eyes. His arms were cradled around Ron, protectively. "Come back when you've got your head on straight."

"Haven't had my head on straight since I was sixteen," Bilius tried to joke. But no one was part of the inside joke. Only his father and his Aunt and his Uncle. Dead. Dead. Backstabber. There was no one left to talk to, no one left to debate how to break the curse and no one left to confide in when it all got too much. "But I know what you mean. It's for the best. I'll talk to you later, Arthur."

He left them there, not looking back.

Outside of St. Mungo's there were a line of flowers. He sat among them. Drinking in the light. Not caring as they began to wilt. This was all so messed up. They'd been so close. And why? Why had the curse not attached itself to any of the other children?

It had to be the burning light they had. The Prewett light. It reminded him of a patronus, actually, if he were honest. Why hadn't the light been strong enough in the boy though? Why had he gotten the curse when five older brothers had been spared?

What was different about Ronald?

He thought of Molly. How happy she'd been through her pregnancies. Then a thought struck him. That wasn't 100% true though, was it? Ronald was different in that sense. They'd been told by the Healer that Ronald was going to be a girl. Molly had been so happy those first few months and then… then they'd been told that was a mistake. That Ronald would be a boy. Molly had spent weeks depressed after that. There had been days, Arthur told him, when Molly had been hard pressed to get out of bed.

Was that it?

Was a few moments of weakness, of sadness, all that was needed for the curse to take hold in the womb? It made sense. His own mother had been the happiest in her life during Arthur's pregnancy. She'd just gotten a promotion at her job at the Daily Prophet and had been spending months away from her husband to ensure nothing bad happened to the baby on accident. They'd made that mistake with Bilius after all, one day when dad had been going through withdrawals of light and had gotten too close to mum. He'd taken light from her and she'd suffered for weeks afterward because of it.

That surely had been the moment the curse had taken hold on himself.

It couldn't only be decided by Grim. He'd read the book a thousand times and knew the other cursed believed it to be true. Believed Grim to be some higher power god, but even the creatures had to have some rules it followed. Otherwise why were they fighting this at all? Why had so many of them searched for a cure if the Grim was so beyond reach in power? There had to be a way other than the Hallows. Those cursed objects they'd spent over six hundred years searching for to destroy.

Maybe that was the trick to breaking it. Maybe that was why Molly and Arthur had so many curse free children, because they were so full of light and happiness. Now though… Ronald had been born without the Prewett light.

Ronald Bilius Weasley.

The child given his namesake.

Was that a mere coincidence? He didn't believe in coincidences, but… He shook himself, hard. Just because the kid had his name… and his curse… did not make this his fault. It was just as likely that the Grim might have picked Ron simply because she was amused that Ronald was Bilius namesake. Bilius considered his options. There weren't many.

He had to tell Arthur.

He had to, but could he?

He'd spent so long keeping it a secret. Hours as a child wondering if Arthur would hate him for what he was. If his classmates would hate him for it. If the world would. He knew, now, as an adult, that Arthur could never hate him. It was against the very fabric of his little brother's genes to hate him.

But now his little one, his baby boy would have the curse.

Could he tell Arthur that?

The answer was surely no.

He couldn't tell Arthur that the Weasley's had experimented with resurrecting the dead, prolonging life, trying in any way possible to beat Death at its own game.

And Death… what could Bilius tell Arthur about the Grim?

He couldn't tell him that each generation there was a least one child born part dementor as punishment for the three brothers deeds. That Ronald was part dark creature, part monster, part soul sucking dementor. That the curse grew worse with age. Starting with the ability to suck the air around them of all happy thoughts. Ronald would then start to see dark memories, unwillingly bringing them to the surface, then craving it. Ronald wouldn't just be able to view or sense any dark memories attached to an object or person, rather, he would be plagued by them, unable to stop himself from feeling it. And should Ronald ever come into contact with death then the curse would fully take hold.

For Bilius it had been terrible even with his father covering for him and a tendency towards books? It had been easy to dawn the night owl persona. Easy to pretend that his friends begging him to hang out and being forced to turn them down wasn't hard. Almost second nature to push away the desire to belong to the world of the light.

So when Bilius wanted to spend the evening at a café in town?

It wasn't so much as blinked at. His father had given him heavy warnings to be careful, but the man knew more than anyone what it was like to feel trapped inside the small barriered walls of their home. Septimus Weasley tried everything in his power to make Bilius feel as if he were free despite knowing full well that they were as trapped as the prisoners of Azkaban prison, as trapped as the Dementors were inside their own skin.

Bilius remembered reading how the shops in Diagone Ally had been vandalized, but to see it? It had been completely different to be in the middle of the war when it broke out. That day he'd seen a shop owner, a muggle born, dragged out of his home and hacked to death with a dark spell that, even to this day, he didn't recognize. He'd stepped out and… well the murderer had dropped dead soon after, soul hovering in the air and the light seeping into his skin even as the Grim gently folded the soul away for the other world.

It was as if he'd been living in a frozen tundra and then suddenly dropped onto a tropical beach. Warm. As if the sun were blazing along his skin and giving it gentle kisses until he felt a pure happiness welling inside his chest. To feel the soul of the person, the unpleasant nature of the murderous beast, pull away from the world, never to return.

That was what it was like to pull a soul from a human.

Bilius often wondered if it was because the cursed lacked souls themselves.

When the curse took hold, fully, Bilius had been forced to stuff his pockets full of cheering charms just to counteract the misery he exuded. It was one thing for people to become miserable when he walked into a room and another level when they started slumping against walls and curling into trembling balls of bad memories.

He had taken to wearing gloves as well. As his fingers would steel random strangers light without even direct contact. Luckily he had to concentrate to pull out their soul, but just touching them was good enough to have someone depressed for days afterwards.

He found though, that he needed light to live now. Once the curse took hold, he needed to steel light, pure light from people, in order to prolong the turn. The longer he went without, the more sick he felt. The closest condition he could compare it too was a vampire refusing to drink blood or a werewolf a few days from the full moon.

Taking the light from living plants equated to a few drops of water in a summer heat. It did practically nothing. Taking it from an animal was like eating bad meat. He'd tried taking light from the air itself, the sunshine and moonlight, but it wasn't possible and had actually caused him to burn terribly for the attempt.

No, he could only take light from people.

He would never admit it to anyone, but this war was the best thing that had ever happened to him. It was easy to walk into the Ministry, to the closest traitor strutting around for the dark lord, and slip his hand on their skin. It was easy to, across from them in battle, raise his hand and rip their soul from their body. He could take three souls at a time.

He would do anything to take away those feelings, anything to stop the terrifying instincts that destroyed his world again and again and again even if, in the moment, he felt warm inside from the light.

He was loyal to the Order, to the side of good, the side of light, but that didn't mean he himself was any of those things. He knew what he was, what he'd done and what he would probably do again. Bilius would fight and die for the cause. If given the opportunity, then he would kill Voldemort himself. The purists were crazy monsters and he would fight in the Order as long as they let him.

But.

What about when the war ended? It was a terrible thought to have, dreading the end of a war. But when the war ended, his source of life would end as well. For six years he'd fought on the front lines and used the terrible position he was in to hide the body count he left behind.

He'd thought about what his father had done and what Great Grandma Sophie had done. Things weren't the same as they'd been back then though. They were on the cusps of the twenty first century. The Modern Age. There was regulation and rules and expectation. They were no longer in the dark ages and that was reflected in the requirements to be a guard or an Auror.

Werewovles couldn't get jobs, couldn't rent apartments or buy homes, they were practically illegal citizens. So where did that leave him? What the bloody hell would they say about a dementor? Would he be treated like the werewolves? Worse? Because at least their furry little problem only lasted one night out of the month. And worse yet, what would happen to his brother and his family once news of what he was and what they carried meant?

Too dangerous.

After the war he would have to find a new source, for both himself and Ron. He would have to tell Arthur… eventually. He would have to teach Ron everything about how to keep himself hidden. If the Ministry ever found out what they were, he wouldn't be surprised if they found themselves locked up inside the Department of Mysteries.

It would be him and Ron against the world.

As long as Bilius could keep his shit together.

Bilius closed the book on his letter to Ron. Hopefully he would never have to give it to him. It could lie here and collect dust with the rest of the stories no one should ever read. Alone in Phillips house where no one would remember it.

* * *

The Grim sat on Ron's windowsill. Ron tried to ignore her, to wait her out like Babbitty Rabbitty had the King and his men, but the Grim always seemed to have all the time in the world. The longer she stayed, the colder it got, first his breath spreading out in front of him as if it were alive and then the air itself. Contorting and twisting until the blankets around him felt frozen.

She was doing this on purpose. The creature was trying to manipulate him and Ron was tired and sick and in a bad mood. He didn't want to talk to the creature or do any more of her bidding. He just wanted to stay here and pretend like she didn't exist for just one night.

Pretend like he didn't know why his dad wouldn't look at him.

Pretend that he was normal.

Pretend that Asha wasn't his only friend and the only person… thing in the world he could touch without affecting her negatively. Ron lay silently, watching the water cup beside his bed slowly freeze over, the glass fogging up.

When midnight struck, she moved to the end of his bed, though when it sat down no indentation occurred. As if the creature weren't there at all. Pitch black eyes watched him, the whites nonexistent, making her as invisible against the wall as a shadow. When she touched his cheek, Ron jerked back until he hit the headboard, forced to glance her way in order to distance himself.

"I don't want to go with you."

She smiled and it was daringly beautiful, like tragedy and triumph intermingled. Ron squirmed as her cold, burning fingers pushed a strand of his hair out of the way.

"My little Vanguard, it isn't what you want to do, but what you are," Grim breathed. "Your Uncle fought his position too, but he couldn't fight what he was, no more than you."

"What evil thing do you want your evil minion to do tonight?" Ron sighed wearily.

"Nothing at all. In fact, tonight is a celebration of your new position by my side. I want to give you a gift."

Ron frowned, glancing over at the blood quill.

"A final gift," Grim amended, the creature's lips twitching in amusement.

"Oh, yeah, no thanks," Ron said hurriedly, holding up his hands to ward her off. "That sounds entirely too ominous and horrible for my taste."

"I'm afraid that you can not refuse my final gift as it is part of the curse I laid out in the original blood between Gabe and I."

"That the one who screwed the pooch, right?" Ron asked.

"He is."

"And what is this final gift?"

The creature stood, holding out her hand to him, black claw like fingers expectant and warm against the chill of the room Grim had created. He would be forced to go with her either way. Whether Ron took it or not. In the same way she had controlled his body and ability back in front of Dumbledore, she surely would here too. Ron slowly put his hand in hers. The grip tight around his wrist, its skin, as always, unexpectedly soft.

"Your death."

* * *

A/N: The Grim only ever talks about Voldemort by the name Riddle. She doesn't respect or care about his silly created name at all, so while Ron has heard reference to Tom Riddle on more than one occasion during this story, he hasn't heard the Grim say Voldemort so he hasn't made a connection between the two names yet though Dumbledore, of course, knows who she speaks of.

Also note: There's only one chapter and the epilogue left for Vanguard. This chapter was a whole LOT of explanations so if there was anything that seemed unclear please tell me so that I can clarify in the final chapter. I just had so much and really wanted it to both explain everything & be interesting. I tried writing Bilius part in the form of an actual letter, but it just read so flat. I really wanted this to feel as if it was Bilius story and feel like I succeeded, but that I also really threw the reader by going back to Bilius being alive there. It felt very random, but all of my 'fixes' felt forced. So I sort of was, you know what? Fuck it. It's interesting to read even if its not presented in the most reasonable manner. It really needs to be in this part of the story because it talks about the Final Gift, which is the last chapter. At first I had this as the epilogue, but it really just doesn't do the right job and I felt like without this, there's really no explanation for the Final Gift, which I had planned to introduce from the very beginning.

Anyways, enjoy and review, I always listen to reviews.

And Notsing, I think you will be surprised by where I take the story. While Choices did inspire me, there's so many other possibilities open to exploration. [(;]


	8. Chapter 8: The Knight of Night

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

A/N: The final chapter got way too long. I had to cut it down into three separate chapters. So this story is complete with 10 chapters and an epilogue. I will post one chapter per week until the end. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 8: The Knight of Night

"The youngest brother was the humblest and also the wisest of the brothers, and he did not trust Death."

His dad was sleeping on the couch. It was a firm, unpleasant reminder of what had happened that afternoon. Of his mother begging him to eat something and trying to hug him. Of his dad flinching away from him so visibly. The hushed argument between his parents after dinner.

His skin felt overly hot and sticky and his limbs were heavy, but somehow when he was touching the Grim those things felt far away. Distant. He was too warm, but she was too cold. Somehow between them, he felt a little better. He wondered if he made her feel warm or if this strange thing was something only he felt. He sort of hoped he made her feel warm. That he did something good for her and that was why she stayed so close.

Ron felt a tug on his hand and looked up at Death who stared back at him. The hand that gripped his own at first appeared as smooth and young, the only deterrent the black claw-like-nails that wrapped around his own much smaller hand. However, being so close to her, he could see the faintest trace of bone, much like one could see veins on a normal person, clear under the surface of the skin. Translucent.

He slipped his shoes on, watching in fascination as the black cloak around his form flowed naturally with his every move. Even if he'd screamed, he was sure his dad would not be able to here him, despite how close he was. The old tattered tennis shoes had rarely been worn these last few months, seeing as he wasn't allowed out during the day and the nights had grown too cold to hang out in the back yard at night.

Ron took a deep breath before looking to the Grim.

The creature was rather… excited, was the best word for it. She appeared anxious, but in a quiet way, in the way Percy was before a big exam. Wanting to show everyone just how smart he was, thriving on pen and paper, confident in his own abilities, but still a little nervous about the whole thing. That was how she was tonight.

Ron knew in no uncertain terms that unlike Percy, this would not lead to a high score and endless bragging. Whatever the Grim wanted to show off would be much more dangerous and a lot scarier than a simple exam.

Ron took a deep breath and stepped outside of the Burrow.

Traveling with the Grim was an odd sensation. For every step they took, they traveled a mile. The scene around them floating by both fast and slow. Weaving almost like smoke, barely physically there before it was gone again. Ron clutched at the Grim's hand as they moved through the fog of London.

Along the way, he kept thinking of all the warnings his Uncle had given him about staying away from Death. 'Bad idea' had sailed passed a while ago, waving a flag bearing a tombstone on it and sailors looking suspiciously like Fred and George.

As they moved, Ron could see the world lightening, dawn approaching alarmingly fast. Grim had warned him that time flowed differently within her domain. They had only been moving for a little while, but it seemed that hours were passing by in the real world- the other world? Ron wasn't sure how any of this worked. He wondered if his mum had noticed his absence yet and what his family would do when it happened.

He wondered if the Burrow's dark atmosphere had disappeared with him or if it would fade slowly. If it would lift completely only as Ron walked back in the door to start the cycle again. He wondered if he should return at all.

'That' was why Ron had eventually taken her hand.

Ron had known since he was very little that he was a monster and if there was even the smallest chance to fix that, to fix him, then he needed to take it. Maybe he didn't quite understand what all of this was about, but he knew he would, eventually. And the basics were clear; his forever long ago grandfather had royally screwed the pooch and Ron had to pay the price.

Still…

"I know that you're the Grim…" Ron said hesitantly, talking to the cobblestone rather than the woman-like-being above him. "But Uncle Bilius is dead. How am _I_ supposed to talk to him?"

Ron hoped the answer wasn't 'because I'm going to kill you.'

"I told you. Your Uncle isn't dead, though his body rots in a grave, his core still lingers, a fate worse than even those souls foolish enough to loiter as a ghost."

Ron frowned, feeling foreboding stretching his insides tight enough to snap.

"You said…" Ron tried to remember how she'd phrased it. "You said that they became dementors. Aren't I already a dementor?"

Ron startled at the sound that came from her mouth. The Grim's laugh was something between breaking glass and the screams of gnomes as they were tossed out of the yard. Yet it was genuine in nature. Amused.

"You are a Vanguard, you guide the souls who try to escape me back to where they belong, seeking them out and extracting their cores from whatever object they've deemed worthy to attach to. Your ability to touch the souls around you means you are capable of experiencing their emotions in the past and present."

"I don't know how people feel though," Ron protested. "I just make them sad. I only know the dark things inside of them. Not good."

Ron felt the black curls of her hair slide passed his ears as the Grim kneeled down before him, stopping him in the middle of the street. Her burning fingers spread across his chest and for the first time, Ron saw something that looked like regret.

"That is my touch. The full extent of my power awakened inside of you much earlier than any other member of your family these six hundred years. You were born at the height of war and death and will grow up in yet another war, so I pushed you to come to the full extent of power at the first opportunity, the consequences of that have overwhelmed you. It is why I have always tried to keep a part of me close to you, little one, but with time and experience, you should be able to reign in your power and control it more. At the very least, you will be able stop it from controlling you."

"Will you teach me?"

"I will teach you as I always have. Through experience of the job. I have taught you caution through the failure of your Uncle, the natural order of death and life through Meredith Binns, how to extract souls and return them to me through Peter Pettigrew. Now, I teach you of actions and consequences, and I will teach you how to take a little and live on that."

"That's all very vague," Ron muttered.

Grim flashed him a savage smile, lacking the shy sweet quality of his sister and the love his mum always had.

"It may appear vague at first, but if I asked you what happens when you pull out a soul from a body?"

Ron grimaced.

"Yeah, okay, I get it."

Around them, the winter air howled. He shivered even though he still felt unpleasantly hot. His hair stuck to his forehead. His tongue felt too big in his mouth and it was much like when his mum put too much honey in his tea and he unintentionally got a large clump of it. He had the urge to ask the Grim to take him home, but he knew such a request would be ignored.

"It is not so important to put things into words. Humans are keen to classify everything and force them into boxes, but the very fabrication of this world and the nature that dictate it will never be so easily explained. Instincts are ingrained. Magic is woven into every fiber of your being. Trust both above all else."

"And Dumbledore," Ron added softly.

Something flickered on the Grim's face.

"Allow Dumbledore to guide you, but do not allow him to manipulate you."

"Aren't you manipulating me?" Ron asked. "I'm basically your knight, right? Like in Chess. You're giving the orders and I'm bound by magic to listen to you, right?"

"I don't think I've ever heard any of my Vanguards say it quite like that," Grim said, amusement coloring her words, "but yes, you belong to me, as your Uncle did and those before him."

"Will we always be yours?"

Ron ducked at the knowing look piercing through him, the black eyes crinkling at the corners in something Ron didn't recognize but sensed wasn't entirely bad. It would have been a good feeling had it come from anyone but Death itself.

"Not always. Redemption is but an inevitable part of nature. Someday there will be a Vanguard who will prove themselves worthy of redemption or perhaps I will find a worthy apprentice to take my place."

"Take your place?" Ron breathed. "Be death?"

"I guide lives to the other side. I am not Death itself, I am the Grim. I simply manage safe passage and order. Eventually, I too will succumb to age and weariness. Eventually, I too will be given the eternal bliss of rest and reincarnation."

"Are there other…"

"We're here."

Grim let go of his hand. Ron looked around, weary and confused as the area seemed familiar somehow. There was nothing special about the building in front of them, outside of its corny attempts at brightening the place up with paint and second-rate art. He squinted at the sign. Three large M's sitting across the face of the building, words spelled out underneath; Managing Mental Maladies.

"This is where Uncle Bilius was taken."

He remembered this now. It was one of his dad's worst memories. Coming here to see his brother's body the night after… after his Uncle tried to kill him. Save him? It didn't seem as scary as his dad remembered it and he didn't feel the dread and despair his dad had.

"Bilius still resides here," Grim told him, walking along the length of the road, towards a large forested area behind the building. Ron rushed to catch up.

"As one of the monsters?"

"It takes a good deal of time to fully lose yourself. He's aware enough to wallow away in the water pipes rather than extracting the odd soul unfortunate enough to pass him by."

Ron shuddered, remembering the Death Eater's half-formed face when he'd accidentally pulled his soul from his body. Grim raised her hand, turning her palm up. A scream answered. He instinctively grabbed onto Grim, her clothing moving beneath his fingers, more skin-like than cloth.

Then _it_ came and Ron knew why his parents talked about the creatures with such fear. Bones and skin, black and grey, looking as if they were half melted, half rotting, and mended together by century-old cloth. The same kind Grim wore, only lacking in elegance and wholeness, the skin like cloth in tatters. Its mouth sucked in as it dragged itself through the air, things that could be teeth or rocks protruding from the opening. And no eyes at all.

A dementor.

Yet.

Ron pulled away from Grim at the familiar feeling. It pulled at him, a sensation of power so like his own, it flowed in the air between them like a chain connecting their souls. The thing screamed again, making him flinch back, stopping to watch as it clawed at the ground, clawed away from Ron.

"Uncle Bilius?"

A sharp keening noise broke the air. It didn't want Ron here. He didn't want Ron here. Seeing what had been done to his Uncle, what a dementor was and what it meant, Ron finally understood the extent of the curse the three Weasley brothers had brought down upon the family.

Grim, tugging on the air itself as if she held the chain between them, dragged the dementor towards her. She smiled fondly, stroking its head as it screeched and pulled away with affection and care.

Ron took a step back, hugging himself as he watched, realizing once more how truly terrifying the Grim was. She turned generations of Vanguard's into these creatures. With a sinking feeling in his chest, Ron realized that if he failed to perform her tasks, this could very well be him. The relief of discovering what he was from the book and why disappeared in a well of panic and terror. He wasn't a monster.

He was a slave to one.

* * *

There was a chill in the air tonight. Arthur pulled his blanket further around himself, trying to get his long limbs to fit on a couch not meant to be slept on. Shame billowed up more than the cold though.

He could not ever be afraid of his son. Never. But acknowledging his families past and all the repercussions had left him in a state of shock. He'd been overwhelmed. Worrying about dementors for the first time in his life. Not of them but _for_ them.

It was his family. His cursed family made up all those terrible creatures. All the facts he'd spit out about them over the years. All the skin crawling, terrifying imagery and his performance of the Patronus with the intent to harm them. To make them go away. Cursed souls who were trapped in the grasp of a horrifying body, their wills no longer their own.

He remembered Bilius's face the first time he'd performed a Patronus. He'd been so startled, flinching back before staring at Arthur as if he'd grown feathers all over his body. Arthur had been in his N.E.W.T year and had wanted to show off in front of Bilius and Mum. He hadn't known how to respond to the fearful delight on his brother's face. The odd mix of pleasure and pain that flickered from one to the other like a pendulum.

His dad had looked unimpressed. Eye wide and unblinking. Arthur didn't really like to think of that moment. It was when his dad started to watch him more closely. Study him like Arthur was someone he didn't know. His dad acted as if he was… waiting for something to happen and every time they met when this thing he was waiting for didn't actually occur, there would be disappointment.

Now he knew though, didn't he? The family had all thought Arthur would be the curse breaker. They thought his light with the Prewitts might be the key to undoing all this madness set upon them.

 _I hoped that Arthur, your father, would succeed where I could not._

Arthur had to free them somehow. He had to fix this.

His mind had been consumed by these thoughts all day and every time Ron had wandered into his sight he thought of his little boy and the terrible future he faced. There was only so much that Arthur could do. Ron would have to face some things alone and the thought was so mind-numbing… so horrifying that he'd found himself flinching any time Ron had come near.

Molly had been furious with him. She'd understood his thoughts, but she'd ranted that it wasn't how Ron was seeing it. All their little boy was seeing was his father flinching at him after reading the full extent of his secret from the book. That was all Ron knew and Arthur best get a grip on himself before Ron thought his dad was truly afraid of him.

Which was why he was sleeping on the couch.

At this late hour, Ron was probably awake still. At three or four in the morning he had at least a few more hours before the sun rose. He should go up there now, talk to him, try to sort out all of this ugly, masterfully crafted series of events. And Good Godric, what had Ron thought of all of this?

All the terrible things he'd unintentionally said.

All the terrible things in that book.

And the Grim.

His ancestors had spoken as if it were an actual creature that only they could see. Had Ron seen this _thing_? Spoken to it? Had it spoken to him? His brother had referred to it as a black dog, but also as a creature during their last interactions.

" _It's our own fault. Not telling you. Keeping you and mum in the dark. You could have helped me handle it better. But I was so afraid you'd reject me. Think me a monster. It's taken a long time to see myself as something other than some hybrid freak."_

Arthur wouldn't let Ron think of himself the way Bilius did. His brother was right. He would help Ron and together they would break this family curse. The kids were too young, but they would sit Bill down and talk to him.

First, he had to talk to Molly though. She didn't know. The blood ink only visible in the light of the moon had disappeared. Molly had not been able to read it yet and Arthur had not been able to put into words the terrible things in that book. She was a strong woman though and she'd be able to handle the truth. He knew she would. Probably not before a timely melt down a number of choice words towards deceased members of their family, but she would handle it all the same.

His life was truly beginning to pile up with staggering tasks.

Talk to Ron.

Discuss things with Molly.

Deal with the Ministry's watchful eyes.

Beat Death.

Arthur laughed quietly to himself. By the mercies of mercury, he sounded just like Bilius. Bilius who had completely changed when he was sixteen, coming into contact with death in some form, the full power of the curse coming down upon him.

Ron was only eight.

Half the age of Bilius when all of this happened to his big brother.

In the many entries in the book Arthur had encountered so far, none of them had been as young as Ron. Such a small act of death enacting such a terrible price. Yes, he needed to speak with Ron now, before any of this descended further into madness.

Feeling more exhausted than the night Fred and George were born, Arthur made his way up the stairs, realizing for the first time just how long the journey to the top truly was.

As he made his way to the last step he froze.

Ronald's door was cracked open. He never left it cracked. Otherwise, the sound of his brothers and sister woke him during the early hours of the day.

Arthur was so quick to open the door that he jammed it on his thumb, cursing and throwing it open, hoping to see the startled eyes of his son.

Only there was no one inside the room. The window was open, the protective sunlight blocking curtains thrown open to either side in a way that simply wasn't possible with the spells Arthur himself had laid upon them. Winter air slipped in around the room, covering a fresh layer of frost and snow under the window sill and across the floor. Upon Ron's bedside table a glass of water sat half frozen. Arthur stumbled over to the window, looking out into the dark night, his fingers crunching the snow on the sill as his heart sped up.

His son was sick. Why was the window open? Where was Ron? His son was sick.

A ticking noise caught his attention.

Arthur's head jerked in the direction of Ron's toy bird. Its head was ticking and its wing spasming as it tried to sit up. His mouth opening and closing with a 'click.'

"D-dearie! I-I tried calling but no one heard! Ronald, dearie, Ronald was speaking with something here, in the room, but I c-co-couldn't see it! Said he-he didn't want to go, but he did! He went out the door! It took him! It toOK HIM!"

Arthur didn't hear the rest. He had launched himself down the stairs, banging and clanging and hollering Ron's name as he hit the steps. The house was waking up, but Arthur was breaking down.

He was going down, down, down. The front door opening near on its own accord. He choked on air as he saw little footprints in the snow. Two feet. Ten feet. Then gone. As if dissaperated.

Ron had been taken.

By Death.

* * *

Some of Ron's earliest memories involved the Grim. He remembered being very little and lost in the woods and the black dog appearing from nowhere. He'd understood without having to be told that the dog wanted him to follow it. Soon enough he'd found himself outside the Burrow with the black-eyed dog trotting away.

He remembered the ragged looking raven landing on the shoulder of a man in Diagon Alley, watching as the black web stretched out from the collarbone as his dad spoke to Ron, trying to get his attention. How the bird had seemed to look directly in his eye that day before it flew off.

The deformed child who'd dragged itself along the street as his mum led him to primary school to learn numbers and reading. The exposed teeth clenching and unclenching as it moved about the children, watching them in fascination.

The beautiful woman swirling her fingers in the fountain as he and Ginny played together in the park on a cloudy day, watching expectantly as if the world were about to crash down upon them all.

People moving about, unaware of the Grim's presence. Never realizing that death could be a tap on the shoulder or an excited pat against a leg or the cold press of a nose against a hand or a graceful kiss on the cheek.

The Grim and all its forms were familiar to Ron, an ever-present being who, while not benevolent in any way, had always appeared to be watching over him. Now it was easy to see that Ron was not being protected but guarded. He was a prisoner and the Grim a warden.

The dementor, what was left of his Uncle screeched an inhuman sound, that left Ron shaking. When his knees were too weak to hold him, he let them crumble beneath him to stare and shake as the few strands of black hair on the creature's head appeared to run through the Grim's fingers. Black claw-like nails digging in and leaving silver marks along the skull as the creature shuddered and tugged.

"I told you I teach through experience," she said carefully, "and here is my next lesson. A lesson in consequences. The tasks I ask of you are not a request. You will perform them to the best of your abilities. I will not ask the impossible of you, but I expect the remarkable. I want your heart and soul in these tasks, every effort to be made on my behalf. I know your life. I know your priorities, and I will not ask you to sacrifice them unless you make me. I want to work with you, but I can work without your consent as well. I have lived a thousand years, little one, and if you wish to die as a human then you will remember that. Do not try to deceive me. Do not try to trick me. I tell you now, I know all of who you are and you are incapable of escaping what has been dealt you."

"I thought you said…"

"Redemption cannot be obtained through deceit."

"Then how…"

"The Deathly Hallows tie me to this earth as surely as they tie you to the curse. Bring me my stone and cloak and the debt your family has incurred from me will be considered paid in full. "

"Why didn't you just demand your cloak from Dumbledore?" Ron asked.

Her lips curled back, revealing that even her gums were pitch black, a sharp contrast against her white teeth.

"The Deathly Hallows have their own type of magic entwined in the world around us. Each of the hallows true owners must be the ones to relinquish their objects into your hands, in my stead, or the owner must already be deceased in some way. In that case, as they're souls are in my care, the object automatically becomes mine upon you obtaining them, but they must be reclaimed before someone else takes possession of them."

"So Dumbledore doesn't own his… er… your cloak?"

"No. I expect you to find out who the true owner of the cloak is and garner their favor to get the cloak."

"Sure, great, no problem, I'll get right on that," Ron muttered mulishly.

"You could always try things that your ancestors have for the past several hundred years," the Grim told him. "I'm sure you'll do marvelously better than your peers."

Ron glanced at the creat- at Bilius, hovering by her side. She'd finally released her hold on it, and its fingers were scraping into the ground as it pulled itself away from her. He couldn't look any longer, glancing instead at the tall building where his Uncle had experienced his 'first death.' It didn't look as friendly as when he'd first seen it. He couldn't imagine being his Uncle, locked inside of a room, expecting to die at any moment. Or, well, expecting to become something that wasn't human.

"Come."

Ron jerked to attention, seeing the outstretched hand of Grim.

"Where are we going?"

"Bilius is my newest creation, but there are older ones that should be sought out this night. A demonstration, of sorts, for souls that reside on this earth too long once pulled from the body."

"I think I've learned my lesson," Ron said in dread. "Really, there's no need to see the others. Tasks are good. Tricking you is bad. Natural death is fantastic."

"I'm afraid…"

"….that I don't have a choice," Ron finished, slumping further into the snow. That's when he noticed that he didn't feel so sick anymore and the snow wasn't affecting him as badly as when they'd first gone outside, despite being barefoot. "Did you make me better?"

"We are outside of the real world, traveling through a dimension only I and my creations may experience in. I have not healed you, you have simply ceased to exist for a time, and thus all your human needs and experiences have as well."

Ron stared at her for a long moment.

"Right. I didn't understand that at all, but I'll assume that's a no on the making me better bit."

"Quite the opposite, as a human, being in this dimension puts stress on your body, all of which you will feel once we return. Which is why I will make this as quick a trip as I can, which means we really must be going."

She held out her hand again.

Ron slipped his much smaller one into the clawed fingers and grimaced as the shadows took hold, leaving the dementor to claw at the ground, wailing in agony and grief.

* * *

As the Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, Dolores pursued all avenues that might benefit the Ministry. Even such undesirables as children. Ronald Weasley's file lay open on her desk, her failed attempt to make contact with the boy at the Christmas party a burn mark against her reputation for garnering results.

The Weasley's were protecting the boy with a ferocity and political skill she hadn't expected from a member of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. She had not anticipated having the Albus Dumbledore stepping in on their behalf nor Amelia Bones to have any sort of influential contact with them. While these complications were unfortunate, it only made her curiosity and thirst for control that much more powerful.

It was confirmation if anything.

Ronald Weasley had a powerful ability to manipulate the emotions of those around him. One that he could not control. One that was dangerous enough that his parents weren't willing to bring him out in public. She wanted that power, they could use it to their advantage.

She wouldn't be taking care of the child, of course, she would have to make other arrangements. The Department of Mysteries would surely have a place to keep the boy. They'd be able to study him and then she could determine the next best course of action. If the child was another empath, they could certainly use such skills to their advantage.

She simply needed an opening.

"Madam," a shaky voice sounded from her fireplace. She glanced over at the head bobbing there, ashen lips licking themselves as her assistant called upon her. She glanced at the clock, bewildered by being called at such late hours. She hurried over, awaiting whatever catastrophe the Ministry needed her for.

"I beg your pardon, but I knew you would be up and want to know." The man spoke hurriedly as if she might smite him at any given opportunity. "The boy you were interested in… a report from the Aurors called in to say that he's gone missing."

She froze. It certainly had not been any of her people who had made this happen. She frowned down at the man before her, tapping her finger on her expansive chin. This could end terribly for all of them if someone else got ahold of the child.

"Send Albert to investigate. I want our legal team to be at the ready when and if the boy turns up. I want a team of Auror loyalists of Fudge ready and waiting at St. Mungos for the next three days. If Weasley is recovered, he will be the Ministry's property… ward, I mean."

"Of course, madam."

The head disappeared, leaving behind a thoroughly pleased pink toad.

* * *

Either side of the narrow bridge swarmed with white, foamy water. Ron clutched onto the claw holding him with a white-knuckled grip. His chest tightened and the odd sensation of breathing in water hit him hard, his lungs trying to suck in air as the foamy water consumed every breathable space. There was a fancy muggle word for this his dad had gone on and on about one evening in concerns to weather, but Ron decided then and there it didn't matter what the bloody word was only that it sucked.

Like breathing ice into his lungs and having it coat him from the inside out.

"Delightful, isn't it?" The Grim said cheerfully. "I always try to keep the layer between myself and the world at its thinnest when I come here."

Ron hugged himself, looking at the dark tower ahead of them and the dark abyss on either side of them. The icicles and frost forming like invitations to slide right off and into death. On either side of Ron and the Grim, there was a sheer drop, forming waterfalls over cliffs, one small outcropping of rock holding a tall greyish black building they were heading towards. Gates as dark and shiny as one of the dragon scales Charlie had shown him once. They even had spikes more appropriate to a dragon than a door.

"It's all very you," Ron agreed.

Wizards stood in uniform, eyes cast outward in search of intruders. They didn't wear robes like at the Ministry or even on the streets. These people dressed like dark quidditch players. Arm guards and wand holsters and spells woven into clothes easy to move in. There was thick padding, but no head guard. It was odd. Seeing someone dressed for sports but on the ground and unmoving. He knew these people were guards, but he'd never seen one up close. The Aurors who had come to his home the one time had not been nearly as heavily armored as these people were.

The Grim walked passed them as if they didn't exist, but Ron knew better now. It was they who did not exist. It struck him all of a sudden that this strange, horrible outer dimension Grim had taken them to was _her_ dimension. It was her home. The place that she existed at all times.

One she could not leave.

These Aurors standing guard couldn't see Ron now the same way no one had ever been able to see the Grim before. How lonely. To forever walk among the living but never be part of it. To never be able to touch it. Despite knowing what a monster the Grim could be, he felt that same hope from before that he gave her some warmth.

They approached the building without hesitation though the closer they got the more the deathly bridge of stupidly falling over was looking more and more appealing.

"How are we going to get them to open the doors?" Ron whispered.

She raised her eyebrow at him and with a startled cry of surprise she pulled him through the giant slab of cement. He came through the other end grimacing and scowling. He had forgotten that was how she got into the Burrow on many occasions. Though she usually preferred to go through glass. Ron didn't say anything about the unpleasantness though, knowing it would give the Grim pleasure to know she'd made him uncomfortable.

"Welcome to Azkaban."

Grey slate walls and a feeling permeating the air that was both familiar and sickening.

' _Oh look, mice skulls or are those gnomes?'_ Ron thought a bit faintly.

They were piled up near the corner of the room. A little too perfectly placed. Balanced atop one another in an odd triangular fashion. Grim looked right at home. Ron found her tugging out of his tightly clamped grip. Her form shifting to become the deformed child, a child who lovingly picked up a discarded skull and placed it with care on top of one of the piles, humming to itself as the cleft lip twitched upwards in delight. As Ron watched the child drag itself to a few more of the skulls Ron began to hear the sounds echoing through the halls. An odd moaning noise.

"I thought you said it was bad for me to stay in this dimension," Ron said quietly, trying to urge the creature along.

The Grim frowned at him, but stood, as if he'd somehow ruined its fun.

"Y _oU_ Ar _e rI_ ght," the child said reluctantly, the ebb and flow of its cracking voice bouncing off the walls. " _Bu_ T i a _l_ wa _ys_ s **t** a _ck T_ h **e** _ **p**_ i _xi_ es."

Not mice or gnomes then.

Ron knew that the Grim had been waiting for this moment for years. The creature had always been waiting, watching from the shadows, patient and impatient for the time when Ron would have no choice, but to listen to it and follow its form into the depths of hell.

It was why his Uncle Bilius always told him to look away from the Grim.

And why Ron had always listened.

He'd been lured slowly into this trap and the creature would not let him go until he'd seen all that it wanted him to see. Sometimes Ron forgot when she looked like a woman, that it was indeed a creature was not a human, but he was always brought back to that realization in one way or another.

The Grim shifted. The black form of the Jack Russel Terrier trotting up to him and tilting its head in a 'follow me' motion. The halls were empty. Ron wasn't sure why that surprised him. He supposed that he expected there to be Aurors inside the prison too. No human seemed to be anywhere nearby though.

He could feel the dementors close by though.

The familiar sensation of dark power emanated further down the way. Pulling at him like strings to a marionette. Ron squinted into the darkness of the long hallways, before glancing back. The dog nudged him forward.

When they finally started coming across people, Ron could only stare.

They were so… lifeless. A crippled old man, laying on his bed and staring at the ceiling. If Ron was not able to feel the tiny slip of light still inside of him, then he'd assume the man was dead. A woman with dark curls about her head, twirling a ripped up piece of cloth between her fingers, watching the strings slowly pull further and further apart in fascination. A man who was naked. Legs upwards and using the barred window as a footstool, muttering to himself. A dark-skinned woman whose hands were risen to the ceiling and eyes looking upward, expectant, like she was waiting for something to fall.

He clutched at the Grim's fur, even its frightening presence more reassuring than the people here, in this place. That was when he came across the man though. The familiar visage who was both a stranger to Ron and yet someone whose story Ron knew very well.

His eyes were brighter than the rest though alight with emotions Ron had never felt before. Hopelessness and defeat. Despair so deep and vast that it exuded from the entirety of the cell and outwards.

It was the innocent man Peter Pettigrew had framed.

It was Sirius Black.


End file.
